


A Sovereign Duke and a Crown Prince

by IGOM



Series: You Can't Go Home Again [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol as a coping mechanism at the beginning, Alternate Title: Oswald von Riegan is Sick of Everyone’s Shit, Byleth Ambiguous, Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Claude’s gonna curse a lot, Explicit sexual content in the form of dreams, Maybe more tags if I think of more, Political Intrigue, Spoilers everywhere for Claude's backstory, Who sucks at coping, and really brought this on himself, route ambiguous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 49,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IGOM/pseuds/IGOM
Summary: Following his escape from the Battle of Garreg Mach at the end of his year at the Officer's Academy, Claude struggles with his role as the next heir of the Leicester Alliance and his obligations elsewhere. With war raging, enemies everywhere, and allies in short supply, he finds himself in an increasingly untenable position, stuck between his duty as the Sovereign Duke and the family who want him home.Sequel to "The Making of Claude von Riegan." (You don't have to read the first story; I will try to put a list of notes at the start of the chapter regarding points from the first that continue on into this.)
Series: You Can't Go Home Again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118303
Comments: 71
Kudos: 35





	1. Claude Fucks Up

**Author's Note:**

> TL;DR the first story? Cliff notes version: Claude's parents sent him to live with Oswald following an accidental poisoning of Claude's cousin the crown prince. During his time in Leicester, a nomad chieftain in Almyra burned the royal palace of Almyra down and killed the entire royal family, save Claude's parents. Our hero, in the meantime, comes to grips with the idea of living in Fodlan and agrees to become the heir of house Riegan, in part from an arrangement with Judith, part because of his growing interest in Relic lore. Story ends with Claude meeting the Eisners and scheming how to convince Jeralt to take a job in Almyra in the civil war between the nomad chieftain and Claude's father.
> 
> Aaron: Claude's steward/manservant. He runs the manor house that Claude uses as his primary residence. Claude's grandfather stays in the Riegan palace in Derdriu. A former stablehand, he owns a horse named Savash that the Riegans gave him as a present.
> 
> Enora: the head cook at the manor, and former midwife. She taught Claude about the medicinal properties of several Fodlan plants.
> 
> Marcel: Oswald's steward/manservant, formerly attached to Claude's uncle Godfrey. He and Claude (and Aaron) have a slightly adversarial relationship, in part due to Claude's heritage.
> 
> Twenty Squares: a board game based loosely on the Royal Game of Ur. Oswald gifted Claude a set for the game that Claude's father gave Oswald during his time as an ambassador from Almyra.
> 
> Judith: Yeah, you know her. She and Tiana were friends in school, and had been Claude's contact for letters from his parents when he first came to Derdriu.

He awoke with a blistering headache and a mouth that felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton while he slept. Ever since he fled Garreg Mach, he'd made a point to be dead drunk before falling into bed, and with his grandfather no longer well to travel to the summer manor of the von Riegans, no one was there to check that behavior. Claude groaned, rubbing his face. By evening, he would forget about the sweat-soaked sheets and the dry mouth and all the other inconveniences of this part of his routine for the last three weeks. Well, he thought it had been about that long; the days had started to run together, if he was being truthful.

Slowly, he took stock of his present state. Stark naked, he had even kicked off the sheet as he sweated out his overindulgence. _Great_. He could only hope that the maids hadn't been in his room since whatever time he had kicked off the coverlet. His manservant he could accept; Aaron had seen more than one slip of Claude's robe and accepted it without comment, but the maids might quit on the spot if they saw this, and he had a hard enough time finding staff who tolerated his oddities.

As if summoned, he heard a knock on the door, and Claude had just enough time to find the edge of the blanket to tug it over his lower half before Aaron entered. "You have a visitor." He had insisted the man stop using his formal address and just call him Claude, something Aaron couldn't abide, so instead they agreed on this blunt sort of address.

He sat up, yawning and scratching at an armpit. "Tell them I'm indisposed until the afternoon. Quite busy, all that nonsense."

"Boy, I know I didn't hear you tell your man to shoo me away." _Oh, Goddess fuck it all_. Aaron barely had time to move out of the way before Judith von Daphnel entered the room behind him. "Are you out of your mind? Get out of bed this instant."

Claude cleared his throat; gods, how he wanted some water. "Do you always enter a man's bedchamber like this? It's a wonder you have any children."

That earned him a hard pinch on the top of his ear, and she twisted it until he gasped. "Three and a half weeks, and you haven't written Oswald a single line to tell him you're safe. He's sent you five letters, but you can't be bothered to send him something back?"

"Ow, Judith, all right already. You've made your point."

Another twist. "Lady Judith, you half-witted scoundrel." At last she let go, and she glared as he pouted, pointedly rubbing his offended ear. "Well, up you get."

He could hear the laughter in Aaron's voice. "Ah, Lady Daphnel, he's not decent."

An eyebrow arched. "In more ways than one," she replied, but she did turn away to leave the room. "Aaron, make sure he bathes and shaves, and when he's dressed bring him to the dining room. I'm sure he needs something to eat."

Scrubbed and dressed in clean clothes, he left the beard and found Judith waiting at the table with his breakfast, complete with a cup of willow bark tea. It tasted foul, but it would clear the headache. Goddess bless the cook Enora with long life. "So the old man set you after me in his stead. What's in this for you?"

"Just a secure future of the Alliance. There's a war going on, if you hadn't heard." Only his own mother and Judith could make him feel so small with a couple sentences.

He set his tea down with a sigh. "I still can't believe Edelgard had that kind of scheme, and pulled it off right under our noses."

"Right under your nose." He sighed again, and Judith laughed. "Is that what's bothering you?"

Claude attempted to muster up some dignity, and he frowned at her as she continued to laugh. "No. Not even the archbishop suspected." Fat sausages, soft bread; he really didn't pay Enora enough. "So the old man wants me home."

Judith stared at him, fingers flexing as if she wanted to twist his ear again. "He hasn't been out of bed all week. He missed the last conference, I had to sit in for Riegan. If you had read your letters, you would have been there instead."

Ah, gods, how his head hurt. His head, his heart, his throat. "Is he very ill?"

"Perhaps you ought to go see for yourself. He doesn't tell anyone anything." Her eyes searched his face, and he wondered if she found what she was looking for when she said, "Claude, what happened at-"

"We all know what happened. I'd rather not talk about it." He felt the distinct loss of appetite, and he tossed his napkin over the remains, more to avoid looking at it; from hunger to gagging, another joy of his new routine. "So, Judith, how's about a spar? I haven't picked up a sword since I came back."

She laughed. "You could hardly hold a fork without your hand trembling. I've no interest in fighting a man who's already defeated himself." Judith stood, and he could only watch, his face burning with shame. "I've said my peace, boy. It's up to you if you want to continue disappointing the old man or not."

Claude let her leave, his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting patch of the wallpaper as he heard the door open and shut to allow the passage of Judith von Daphnel out of his house. He listened; the clatter of porcelain and china as Aaron cleared the table, Enora's tisking at his half-eaten meal, the whisper of the maids' skirts as they moved around the place, tidying for the day.

At last, he sighed. There really wasn't anything for it. "Aaron!" A door opened. "Could you have the stablehands prepare my mount? I hope to take off by noon."

"Of course. Do you require a companion?"

He shook his head, unbuttoning his jacket absently; he hated these confining Fodlan clothes, snug even before his year in the monastery. "I'll send for you if I'll be there longer than a couple days." Claude stood. "I'll be in the solar until then."

"Very good."

Upstairs, he stepped into his bedroom, fiddling with the key for his desk until it finally turned in the lock. Inside, a pile of letters, seals still unbroken. Claude sighed and gathered them up before making his way to the solar. He had not been spending much time in the room, preferring to eat breakfast and then to stumble back into bed until the room stopped spinning quite so fast, but he didn't have the time for that today.

Lysithea, Hilda and Marianne all wrote to him, their letters full of tidings that they too had arrived safely back home; somewhere during Hilda's letter Aaron arrived with tea and raspberry filled pastries. A second letter from Hilda stated she had taken an extended trip to Derdriu "if he was ever in town." He snorted, wondering just how sarcastically she intended that sentence to be.

The letter from Lorenz he opened, read the first line, and almost tossed it in the fire before thinking better of it. Full of lures, trying to fish for information that could no doubt be used against the Riegans. But when he was more sober perhaps he could find his own hints about the state of Gloucester.

Ignatz, with a postscript from both Leonie and Raphael; they had fled the monastery together, and this was written from Ignatz's family home. No doubt the others had moved back to their own places. At least everyone had made it home safely, and he had not abandoned them before he saw every one of his classmates on the road home before taking flight himself. _A better showing than his Princeliness._

He refreshed his tea and set aside the letters from his companions. Grandfather's letters, marked with the heavy yellow wax seal of house Riegan. Claude turned over the first one and traced his name written there; he'd kept them in careful order of arrival.

"My dear Claude," it started. "I've heard about Garreg Mach. I know it must be difficult for you, but please come to Derdriu immediately. We've got to strategize before the next roundtable conference, and I want to hear from you what happened at the monastery. You must have a read on Edelgard's character, and your insight will be invaluable.

"I have missed you these last few months. When you come, bring the twenty squares board, and we shall see what kind of opponents von Vestra and Gautier made, yes?" He groaned; that missing jade piece with the crack on the corner never turned up no matter how many times he upended his dorm room looking for it. _What would Grandfather say when he saw I was using a pebble in its place?_ Never mind that now.

Second later, dated two days after the first. "My dear boy, I have news. The conference is set for two weeks from now, so you must come immediately. Leave Aaron if necessary, Marcel can attend you until he arrives. There's rumors that the Gloucesters and Acheron have been meeting with Imperial emissaries, and we have to nip that in the bud.

"How is your relationship with the Gloucester heir? Perhaps you could work something out with him to bend his father's ear. If not, perhaps your friend Hilda? We have much to discuss, so please come as quickly as you can."

Third. "Claude, come home immediately. We're running out of time." Fourth. "Boy, I've no patience for this foolishness, the conference is in two days."

He swallowed, staring at the last letter, afraid of what might be contained within. Tea to his lips; stone cold, and he set it back down without taking a sip. His fingers trembled as he cracked the seal and opened it; there was only three words: "You've disappointed me."

Aaron found him at midday staring at the fire, tea still untouched and unfolded letters piled beside the pot. "Your mount is ready. Enora insists you eat at least a little something before you leave."

Claude stirred. "I'll be down in a moment." He didn't need to ask if his riding gear had been set out to change. The door shut, and he gathered up the letters, folding each with care until he came to his grandfather's letters. The first four he tossed in the fire, but the last one he folded carefully; when he had changed, he would tuck it away from the rest, hidden in an inside pocket of his riding vest. 

The letters curled, edges blackening, wax hissing on the hot stone of the fireplace. One last glance around the room; Grandfather might really disown him this time, and he wanted to remember every moment he spent in his place before he met his fate at the hands of Oswald von Riegan, Sovereign Duke of the Leicester Alliance.

* * *

He landed in the courtyard at sunset, ignoring the wary stares of the guards as they eyed the wyvern he had taken from Garreg Mach; no one would miss it from that place now. Claude dismounted and gestured for a stablehand to come take the reins. They did so with clear trepidation, eyeing the creature. "Just tie him up beside the stables, he's docile enough to stay put." These Fodlan wyverns were practically toothless compared to the ones he'd learned on with Nader.

"Lord Claude," a familiar voice said; dry, a bit haughty, but with an unmistakable servant's poise. He looked over to see Marcel approaching. "Your visit is unexpected."

He raised an eyebrow. "The old man sicced Judith on me and yet it's unexpected that I'm here. Right." A gesture. "Lead the way."

Marcel tisked. "He's not well enough to see you tonight." They entered the palace. The steward glanced as Claude removed his gloves. "Where did you get the wyvern?"

"It was the fastest way to get out of the monastery." Already he was walking up the palace steps to force Marcel to follow him. "Well, if he's in bed, I suppose I can speak to him tomorrow. My usual rooms are still available?"

"Lord Claude-"

"I know the way, Marcel. Unless Grandfather needs you, you can retire for the night." One less obstacle in his way, the better.

At least the steward knew well enough to let it lie there, and soon enough he was alone in his apartments. Nothing had changed in those rooms; he could almost pretend Garreg Mach never happened. He pulled off his clothes as he walked toward the dressing room, bunching them up in a fist to toss on a chair. Soft pants and shirt; he had no patience for a tight jacket at the moment.

One deep breath, two, three, and then he smiled at himself in the mirror. Marcel was hardly fooled, but he didn't need to outwit him, just avoid being caught.

In the bedroom, he walked with purpose to the wall beside the bed. There, the wall slid away without protest, and he closed it behind him and walked the short hidden corridor that connected these rooms with the ducal apartment. Before he entered, Claude assessed the sitting room from a narrow slit in the paper, and he could see a faint light flickering under the door to the duke's bedroom. If Marcel were there, the door wouldn't be shut, so he pushed the hidden door open and let himself inside.

He found Grandfather awake and propped against a mountain of pillows, book in hand. He looked no different than when Claude last saw him in the summer, the only change a slight darkening under his eyes. A glance up, and then he quietly marked the page. Claude stood at the door, waiting until the old man had set aside his reading and gestured toward the chair beside the bed. "Hello, Grandfather."

"Claude." his voice was weaker than he remembered. "Call for Marcel, would you?"

"Tell me what you need, I'll get it." He smiled what he hoped to be conspiratorial. "Technically, I'm not supposed to be in here."

"Ah." Their conversation was interrupted by coughing, and his grandfather began a frantic search for something on the bedside table; a clean handkerchief, and he finished his fit with it clamped firmly over his mouth. Even in the dim candlelight, Claude could see it staining pink as the coughing subsided and the old man wiped his mouth clean. The crumpled fabric joined a pile on the table; he tried not to look. "Bring the chess board from the other room, please."

They set it up in silence, Grandfather always played black. "It's good to see you," the old man murmured as they put the pawns in place.

"Judith worried me saying that you're sick and bedridden." He glanced up and examined the duke's face. "Is it just the winter?"

He shrugged. "It does get worse every year." Already he was assessing the board. "Make your move."

They played in the same heavy silence; any conversation between them would feel worse, forced and stilted as they both avoided their usual familial intimacy. He lost. Claude rubbed his neck, examining the board. "You got me good this time."

"Not too difficult to beat a drunk at a game of the mind," Grandfather murmured, and he looked up to see the old man glaring at him. "Since you don't have enough sense to be ashamed of your behavior, I suppose I ought to be for you. We've lost the Gloucesters to Adrestia because of your inaction."

A sick tangled feeling choked him, and Claude dropped his gaze; he couldn't bear the fury clenching his grandfather's fists on the coverlet. "I'm sorry, Grandfather."

"Don't apologize to me, I'll be long dead before that child pretending to be Emperor steps foot in Derdriu." Each sentence was a whip, crackling and furious; he let the blows fall. "You better make amends to all the citizens in this Alliance who will lose their lives, their professions, their homes and families because of your pity party. What do you have to show for it, Claude? Do you feel better?"

He shook his head and swallowed the brambles in his throat. "If you want to send me back to my parents, I-"

"I wouldn't send your sodden ass back to my Tiana. What, so she can see what a pathetic job I did raising her son?" He stared at his feet, the carpet, anything other than the Duke Riegan. "You're the only person in the entire world who could have gone to a military academy and come back less disciplined than when you left."

"Grandfather-"

He heard the old man swallow, a thick, painful sort of sound. At last he looked up and saw not just anger, but concern, pain. _And love_. "Claude," he said, his voice suddenly softening as they looked at each other. "This isn't like you. What happened at Garreg Mach to make you run away?"

He took his grandfather's hand in his; when had his skin gotten so frail? Claude feared if he squeezed too hard, he'd find bruises blooming on Grandfather's skin tomorrow, or worse, bones would snap and twist under his grip. "I'm going to make it up to you, just give me a chance."

The old man snorted. "You would be lucky if I sent you back to your parents, because you are going to fix your mistakes, and believe me when I say this will be the most miserable time of your life." A hand reached out, and Grandfather took his chin. "And we're starting with this. You already look enough like your Goddess-cursed father without that scruff."


	2. Spoils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is kind of dialogue heavy-I promise it will get better as the story progresses.
> 
> Renard-Count Gloucester.
> 
> Claude knows about a hidden passage because he and Judith used it frequently to spy on the Roundtable Conferences before Claude was officially heir.

He was somewhere warm and dark; no, not quite that. It was dark, the dim light just enough to see the outline of someone else beside him, the press of their body warm against his. Lips on his ear, but gods, they were in public, but where were they? It looked vaguely like the cathedral at Garreg Mach, or like his dorm room, or both at once. "Khalid," a familiar voice said, breathy with anticipation. And then, without another word, he felt a tongue, a mouth around his cock, and he shivered, wanting to protest but his own voice stopped working the minute those pretty lips-

Claude woke up to daylight in his palace bedroom with a start, and then sagged back into the bed with a sigh. Sticky; he'd need a bath. _What a stupid dream._ Already it was slipping away from him, unraveling in its absurdity. That person would never know that name, so there was no point of dreaming about it. He lifted up the coverlet to glare at his traitorous member. "And you ought to remember that, too," he muttered. And he couldn't even count on Aaron's discretion in the matter; instead, he'd have to tell Marcel to get the servants to draw him a bath and change the sheets.

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, the door opened and Marcel entered the room. He dropped the blankets; too late, and Marcel quickly hid a smile. "Lord Claude, is there a problem?"

 _Guess I'm going to be sticky all day._ "No, nothing. I just thought I saw a mouse on my bed, that's all." He mustered as much dignity as he could. "Have my clothes been set out for the day?"

"Yes. Breakfast is waiting, and then his Grace asked you join him in the council room." A wave of Claude's hand, and Marcel retreated with a bow. He sighed once he was alone and slipped off the bed and cleaned himself up as best he could with the wash towel and basin in his dressing room. He glanced at the suit set out, surprised to see it was one of his favorites.

Rose tea, dry toast, and cold eggs; if anything, Marcel's dislike of him was a constant he could rely on. _Not even jam, the bastard_. But he'd eaten worse meals at the Academy, and he wasn't exactly in a position to kick up a fuss; that would have to wait until he'd gotten back into his grandfather's good graces. At least the tea reminded him of Hilda; perhaps tomorrow he could pay her a visit if she was still in Derdriu.

Were the corridors always this cold? He shivered as he walked to the council room. _Wait_. This was a summer suit, that's why he liked it so much; Goddess _damn_ that Marcel. At least the council room was sure to be warm if his grandfather waited there, so he picked up his pace.

The table of the council room, carved into a map of Fodlan, was currently littered with commander's tokens. Grandfather sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the field before him. "You're late."

"I came as soon as I woke and ate." He walked around the table, examining the scenario; no, not scenario, the situation of the war. "How current is this information?"

"As of this morning's letters." Grandfather crossed his arms over his chest as Claude continued to wander. "Tell me your opinions of Edelgard."

He licked his lips. "Naive, but ambitious. She has some dangerous allies, but I wonder who is controlling who." Secret allies, too, an unknown quantity that he would have to account for, as if such a thing could be possible. It frustrated him how little he knew. His eyes traced troop movements. "She's going after Faerghus first."

"We're not getting a lot of information out of there, some sort of rebellion is making it difficult for Judith to get her spies in position."  
He sat down and considered this. "I wonder why."

"The Blaiddyds are as weak as a rotten tooth. Rufus is all but useless, and Dimitri hasn't been seen since Garreg Mach."

That surprised him; actually, not really. "I talked to him just before the monastery fell, hoping to get his cooperation. It didn't work, obviously." Instead, Dimitri had muttered something about gouging out Edelgard's eyes and then wandered off; Claude never had taken a letdown from a crush quite _that_ poorly. "He's gone mad."

Grandfather laced his fingers together. "And yet Gautier and Fraldarius are standing by the royal family if all accounts are to be believed."

Old man Fraldarius would cut off his own nose if the crown of Faerghus asked him to, and would probably smile and bandage it himself after. "Surprising there's conflict within the Faerghus ranks, they all struck me as particularly attached to their young prince."

A sigh. "If only we could get better information out of the area. As it is, the best we can do is force a show of neutrality in Leicester." 

"At least we don't have to contend with Almyra on the eastern flank." Claude kept his voice very neutral; there was at least one secret listening spot for this room. "How does that fare?"

"Promising for the prince and his forces. I've heard rumors that they may even take the capital back within the year." His eyes met Grandfather's, unspoken words between them. Claude's father, Alai the Starry-Eyed and almost the last prince of the Almyran royal family, had been waging war against Farid the Usurper, a nomad chieftain who had burned the palace to the ground and took the crown for himself nearly two years ago now. It twisted every time he thought of it. "If he is successful, we can only hope he is a very different man than his father."

He snorted; oh, it hurt not to laugh. Papa and his grandfather the king might as well have been born on opposite ends of the world in terms of personality; being a black sheep ran in Claude's part of the family. "I've heard he is a wonderfully odd man."

"Odd does not make a good leader, my boy."

Claude felt himself relax a bit at those words; better than just boy or any of the other things he deserved to be called at this time. "An element of unpredictability could mean everything in times of war, though." He focused his eyes on the south of Leicester. "What of Gloucester and Acheron?" Of the latter he'd happily crush underfoot, but the former was too powerful to cross.

"Good for us that despite their leanings toward the Empire, Renard and Acheron still loathe each other and they're too busy sniping and undercutting each other to be much use to Edelgard at this time. But we've got to keep Renard in check somehow. Goneril?"

It took Claude a moment to understand what he meant, and shook his head. "Hilda won't do it, and she's more useful bending Holst's ear." He closed his eyes, considering. Marianne was too frightened of her own shadow to be of use to persuade Lorenz. "I'll write to Lysithea." It was a long shot, but it might just work.

He heard a cough, a rattling painful thing that lasted longer than any other fit of his grandfather's before. "The Ordelias hate the Empire, so it's a good thought." At least he didn't seem out of breath from the fit. "Call for Marcel, would you? I'm ready for lunch."

At least he could count on any meals taken with his grandfather to arrive hot and more than likely not tampered with, even if it wasn't much more than a brothy soup than something with a bit more substance. "I told you to shave off that scruff, Claude," Grandfather murmured as they tucked in, and he looked up to see his grandfather's cheeky grin. "Do I need to call a barber?"

Claude chuckled and shook his head. "My shaving tools are at the manor. I'll write to Aaron to follow me here, and I'm sure he'll pack it. You'll have to live with a scraggly grandson for a couple days, I'm afraid."

"Perish the thought." The old man looked thoughtful. "What are your plans for the day, my boy?"

"Other than staring at this map and hoping I have a revelation directly from the Goddess?" He sighed. "I need to write to Aaron, and then should get in some training." Claude considered his grandfather over the table. "Will you feel well enough to have supper with me?"

"Doubtful. I've been asleep before the sun sets lately." He set his napkin over his bowl, but not before Claude noticed he had hardly finished half. _Where had the old man's appetite gone?_ Slowly, he stood. Claude slurped the rest of his meal down, even as his grandfather laughed. "Walk with me."

Grandfather's pace was steady, his path even. They walked down a corridor Claude had not explored in his time in the Riegan palace; there had been too many books to read and too many eyes on him to fully explore every cranny of the palace.

They stopped at a door with two guards, heavily bolted. "What's this?"

"The family vault." He fiddled with a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.

Sunlight poured in from barred windows, and the disturbance of long-stagnant air stirred up dust, which floated in the air, almost magical in appearance. There were paintings in gilt frames covered by clothes to protect them from the dust and sun, fine furnishings, a jewel-encrusted scabbard, and a pile hidden under another cloth that Claude was certain was gemstones in a heap on the floor. "What's with the paintings?"

Grandfather grunted. "Portraits of dukes everyone would rather forget." Claude snorted, and followed the old man as they picked their way through the vault. "Here we are."

It didn't look like much, just a long thin wooden box, unadorned except a pair of simple latches on the front. "Open it."

He raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked. Claude sucked in a breath and looked at his grandfather, who looked as pleased as a fox with a vole, and he looked down again. A bow; _the_ bow. He touched the cream colored limbs and the steel grip, eyed the spiked parts, the red and black heart of it just above the grip. When he touched this, he jumped back with a yelp; damned thing started to glow, and felt an instant sensation of heat under his fingers.

A chuckle. "It knows." He looked at his grandfather, who nodded. "Go on, pick it up." It glowed again as Claude's hand gripped the cool metal and he lifted it from the box. "I suggest leaving it strung. It takes three strong men to bend it again." He paused. "I'm the one that broke the original grip, by the by. Got whipped for it, too."

Claude set it back down in the box and shook his head. "Grandfather, I-"

"I know what you want to say, but keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself. We don't have the luxury of regrets right now. Learn Failnaught, and let it know you. The more mastery you have, the better." Their eyes met. "You know as well as I do what's coming. Better, even, I'd guess."

He nodded, and on sudden impulse, embraced the old man. "Thank you."

The old man chuckled. "Let's go see what you can do."


	3. Grandfather's Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last story notes:
> 
> Claude's father likes to draw, and he sent Oswald a picture of Claude when he was born. Instead of written letters, he sends drawings along with Tiana's letters to their son. The only note he wrote in the previous story was hidden in Claude's journal with some gold in case Claude felt the need to leave Fodlan in a hurry. 
> 
> Oswald and Hilda's father (Hercule) are mentioned to be in talks to formalize a betrothal between their houses. Claude suspects that Hilda is very into the ladies, but goes along with it as part of a bargain he made with Hilda to help each other out during their Academy time.

Once Grandfather shooed out the arms masters and a chair was pilfered from a nearby sitting room ("I can't recall ever being in this room," the old man muttered), Claude set up his targets. "Awfully confident of your abilities, I see," Grandfather said from his chair.

"I learned to string a bow almost as soon as I could walk. The first time I shot an arrow I fell right back on my little baby backside." Papa's hand was nearly as long as his practice bow, and how he laughed at the toddler's attempts to aim and shoot arrows with padded tips. Over the years, archery became as natural as breathing, and even his most skilled cousins could hardly boast better form.

A chuckle. "I know, your father sent me a drawing." Claude shook his head even as he laughed with the duke. He knew there was sporadic communication between his parents and his grandfather, but this made him wonder just how inconsistent it had really been.

He caressed the limbs of Failnaught, searching for damage or weaknesses in the body of the weapon. It was longer than what he was used to and would be more difficult to wield on wyvernback. Well, wasn't the first difficult thing in his life, and wouldn't be the last.

 _Wonder if I'll ever get used to the glow,_ he mused as he nocked and arrow and took aim at the first target. His forearm warmed, the sensation of his Crest stirring, but there was something different about this time, and he would have to figure out just what it was. String drawn back to his ear and let loose in one fluid motion. _Thump_ went the string, followed by a second when the target was hit. Not quite the center, but close. After his month of inactivity, it felt good to draw back a bowstring, to aim and fire. This hit on the center. _Thump thump thump thump._

"Your form is quite interesting, but I can see the benefits of such a stance. It's more adaptable for mounted archery."

He moved on to the second target, set further back than the first. "You said you broke the grip. So you used to be an archer?"

"Yes. I fought in a couple skirmishes against the Almyrans with Hercule's father." He heard another chuckle as his arrow thunked the target. "He was my drinking partner, too, and a dear friend." He paused, enjoying the reminisce. "At least until I won Annemarie's affection right out from under him. He never quite got over that." Claude moved on to the third target, took careful aim. Just as he went to let fly, his grandfather continued. "You know, I was about your age when Annemarie and I were married."

 _Thunk_ went the string, but the arrow instead buried itself in the dirt several yards away from the target. Claude blushed. "I'm not ready for all that."

He could hear the amused smile that was certain played around the old man's mouth. "You say that, but war is here, and who knows what might happen? To secure Riegan, you should consider taking a wife."

He picked up the arrow from the dirt; no damage, that was something. He avoided looking at his grandfather. "I'll think about it."  
"There were plenty of pretty girls at the monastery, yes?"

"Grandfather, please." Sure, he made out with Dorothea a couple times, but she kissed all the nobles. That only lasted until Lorenz made some snide comment about his semi-fake betrothal to Hilda, and then he was treated as if he was as bad a womanizer as Sylvain. "Besides, aren't we still talking to the Gonerils about that?"

Steady, steady; no matter what his grandfather said next, he wouldn't miss his shot. "That's not set in stone, so if there is someone you prefer, I would entertain it." He would not miss. 

As he drew back and fired, there was a flash of light as Failnaught glowed brighter as he let loose. He yelped, but looked when he heard the _thunk_ of the arrow; half-buried in the target, doubtful it would be easily removed and would have to be cut out. Grandfather laughed. "What."

"Fallen Star." He heard footsteps, and Grandfather took the bow in his hands. "After all this time you must be eager, my old friend." He looked at Claude, an odd smile on his lips. "The Relics are strange things, and I think that Failnaught knows when it's being spoken to. You may feel the same as you become acquainted with it."

He helped his grandfather back to the ducal apartments, the old man leaning on his arm as they walked slowly back to the family apartments. "I may have overdone it today."

Still, he had enough energy for chess and tea once he had been settled into bed; at least he didn't fuss when Claude insisted on Enora's blend to soothe his cough. "There's something that's been bothering me. Did Aaron write to you about my drinking?"

A smile curled the old man's lips as he sipped his tea. "Your manservant didn't betray your confidence, the wine merchant gossiped to Marcel about a large order from the manor house." Ah.

They played in a companionable quiet, the only sounds the clacking of pieces on the board. Grandfather was tired, reflected in his play; still, he won. Claude chewed on his lip, replaying their game over. "One of these days, I'll win."

"Better do it quickly, my boy." He looked into his grandfather's eyes, and the old man patted his chest where Claude knew Grandfather's Crest to manifest. "The doctors say that this has kept my sickness from invading both my lungs, but even Crests can't stop the inevitable. It's been slow, but it is creeping into my throat." The miracle of Crests turned into a slow suffocating death for the Duke Riegan.

He took his hand. "How long?"

He shrugged. "Within the year." He patted Claude's hand as it gripped his. "It is good to have you home."

Claude nodded and smiled. "Get some sleep." He kissed his grandfather's temple as he stood. The chess set could stay in this room for now.

Supper waited for him in his own sitting room, stone cold; well, there were worse things than cold pheasant, and it could wait for him a few minutes more. Instead he went to the desk and set out fresh paper, pen and ink. "Aaron," he started. "I hope my leaving so suddenly didn't cause too much of an uproar. Please come as soon as you can with my shaving kit, some of that tea Enora makes for Grandfather, and anything else that might be of use. My trunk can wait for when the horses can be spared, I left some clothes here in Derdriu. The situation here is not good, and I expect I will be needed in town for some months. Yours, Claude von Riegan."

Letter folded, wax warmed with a candle until it dripped into the crease and he pressed a seal into the congealing stuff. "Marcel!" The door opened, and he held out the letter. "Express to the manor, if you would. And could you get someone to draw me a bath?"

He ate while the servants drew his bath, and once they were out he shooed them away. "Tomorrow it can be drained, it's late. I know how to wash myself." The water was scented lavender, which he would tolerate this time. He closed his eyes; it had been a long couple days, and this was just the trick to give him a good think before bed.

Why Faerghus first, and did it mean Edelgard considered Leicester more or less of a threat than the holy kingdom? Or did that not matter in her calculations? Claude rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to think of Garreg Mach. There was else something there, secrets he had only the barest of inklings. Would Felix know? The Fraldarius family was closest to the Blaiddyds, but even if he knew it was more than likely Claude would be told to piss off and mind his own business.

 _Dimitri, you great fool_. They could have been united against Edelgard if the prince hadn't completely lost his reason in the last weeks of their academy days. It made him think this wasn't a rational move on the Emperor's part; on both sides, there was something personal in this fight. He felt like a blind man, stumbling along with no sense of direction or purpose.

Tomorrow he would talk to his grandfather, find out what he knew. Any letters would have been burnt, but the old man was still sharp and no doubt he remembered all the fussy details. Before that, though; his morning would need to be occupied with Hilda Goneril. 


	4. A Romantic Outing with Hilda Valentine Goneril

Claude watched the lazy drape of Hilda's embroidery project as he lay with his head on her lap. It was a familiar, comforting sight that reminded him of the good times at Garreg Mach and all those late night discussions in her room as she worked on her jewelry or stitching. They were alone in the Goneril townhouse where she had taken up temporary residence, and it was almost like their school days, already seemingly far away. "Grandfather was very upset with me." _And then he gave me a Relic, the madman._

She pulled her thread taut to tighten her stitch. "You disappeared for an entire month, Claude." In public, she still played the vapid girl, but at least in private with him she was a bit more forthright in her opinions about politics. "You know, Lorenz has been using this as an example of how unfit you are to lead the Alliance."

He groaned and covered his face. "Shit." Those Gloucesters.

"And I have to admit, he has a point."

He couldn't keep the whine out of his voice. "Hilda, you're supposed to be on my side."

The snip of scissors. "That's why I'm telling you this, Claude. You want to be Mr. Leader Man, so stop pouting and get to work. We were all there, too." She was right, of course, more right that she ought to be. "Never thought you of all people would be the one to snap."

He opened his eyes. "Do that thing with your nails."

"If my brother were here he'd have decapitated you by now, you know." But she put her fingers in his hair and gently caressed his scalp with her long nails, just hard enough to make him shiver from the sensation. 

"Holst still doesn't know about Marianne, huh?"

"Don't ask stupid questions you already know the answer to." Her hand left again so she could stitch. "Father said he's even reconsidering his last conversation with your grandfather."

Claude sighed. "Don't even pretend you're upset about that; you don't want to be engaged to me, either." They'd play it different in public of course, mostly to annoy Lorenz, but marriage in name only would only make them both miserable.

"It absolutely is a problem. If he can find a better arrangement in Gloucester or the Albrechts or, ugh, Acheron, he'd take it with no remorse and there goes your alliance with my house and my cover of your need to grow up a bit before you're ready to marry." She flipped over the embroidery hoop to examine the back of her work, and the fabric tickled his nose. "Best case scenario would be with the Daphnels and the wedding wouldn't take place for another ten years."

Another sigh. "Everything sure got complicated in a hurry."

"That's an understatement. Who knew Dimitri had that in him?"

He glanced up at the sliver of her face visible. "Remember that time he joined your sewing club?"

"And bent every needle? At least he bought us all new ones." But the prince had laughed at himself, even as he seemed embarrassed at the disaster he'd left in his wake. _What happened to that Dimitri?_ "It was sweet of him to try to connect with Mercedes that way."

Claude huffed. "I did things like that for you guys, too."

He loved Hilda's laugh, at least when it was real and not her fake, trying to get something out of someone laugh. "All your stealing from the kitchens and having impromptu parties in Raphael's room were very appreciated, Mr. House Leader."

"They were a lot of fun, especially those times we had to take over Ignatz's room, too." He glanced at her again; she smiled. "Speaking of house leadership, my stalwart second in command."

"Oh, I knew it! I knew you wanted something from me." He felt a poke of her needle on her hand, barely enough to even hurt. "Well, out with it."

He rested his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes. "I need you to write Lysithea to convince her to convince Lorenz to talk some sense into his stupid father."

She did not pause in her work, but it took Hilda a moment to reply. "That is ridiculously over-convoluted, even for you. Just write to her yourself."

He made a face, but doubtful she could see it behind the drape of her work. "Lysithea doesn't listen to me, I don't even think she likes me all that much."

"Maybe if you stopped teasing her."

"There's nothing like the thrill of seeing her consider singeing my hair." Hilda snorted. Claude stretched. "I suppose I could always ask Mari-"

"Don't you finish that sentence. You leave her out of this." Another snip of scissors, and she flipped over her work again, sighing at him. "Why do I let you rope me into these schemes of yours?"

"You have to admit, the one where you pretended all my library books were yours and then you convinced Sylvain to take them back was pretty genius." He'd already been lectured twice about hoarding books, once by an assistant librarian and once by Seteth, so he was damned if he was going to get caught again.

"My part was genius, your part was simple." Her needle dipped into the fabric trailing a new color of thread. "I'll write to Lysithea on one condition."

"Anything for you, my dear Goneril."

"I have an appointment this afternoon at a dress shop, and the carriage broke a wheel two days ago."

He closed his eyes. "One carriage ride? Pretty cheap for you." He turned onto his side with a yawn. "How long are you going to keep sewing?"

"Oh, no, Claude, you are not taking a nap on me today. You always drool, and this is _silk_." She pushed his shoulder to make him move. "Brat."

He sat up, pouting. "If you really loved me, you wouldn't care."

She snorted. "Because I don't."

* * *

The carriage lurched to a stop, and Claude caught Hilda before she fell off the seat. Leave it to Marcel to provide him the worst carriage with the worst driver; Aaron couldn't arrive in Derdriu a moment too soon. "Sorry about that."

"I hope you have a word with your grandfather." Claude escaped the carriage and helped Hilda descend. She glanced at him, saw the look on his face, and sighed. "I'll see you later."

"I'll be around." He stuck his hands in his pockets and began a walkabout, but his eyes stayed fixed on what had once been an open-air market; now it was brimming with refugees from both east and west. The Almyrans he knew about; he had been called away from the academy to attend a conference about the refugees at the Goneril border and had engaged in a spectacular shouting match with Holst. Hilda's next letter from her brother praised his negotiating skills; strange man.

Children and women, mostly, with some old men scattered. _Always the way, huh._ The men no doubt had been conscripted into infantry for both wars; just another thing that Fodlan and Almyra had in common. But even here, among the tents and the tired faces, there was something lovely; while there was a clear delineation between the Faerghus and Almyran parts of the camp, he could see clumps of children all over, heedless of the differences their adults put so much importance and faith in. He watched a game of kick-the-ball played in a clearing in the center; it seemingly had no rules and no teams, just the joy of running and competing with each other to get a turn to whack the ball across their meager clearing.

 _I've really gotten spoiled,_ he considered as he walked, still watching. When he first came to Derdriu, he'd been trapped in a locked carriage for three days and arrived in whatever cast-off Fodlan clothes his parents could find to begin his exile with Grandfather Riegan. Back then, he'd refused to let Aaron even touch his nightclothes from home for fear they would end up disappeared in the wash and he would be left with nothing but the Fodlan pajamas he'd been offered; now, he hadn't even gone two days before he was cursing Marcel's name and wondering when his own manservant would arrive. _Whining about the wrong carriage, how stupid._

He eyed the women; cold-eyed and tired was the dominant theme. Some rocked babies against them, cooing and soothing them. What were they eating? Who was feeding them? Claude frowned as he considered them all. Aaron really couldn't come quickly enough; _should've reminded him to bring the manor ledger, too._ There would be more coming, too, as the Faerghus war had only just gotten underway.

Hilda waited in the carriage by the time he finished his slow wander around the camp. "What are you looking at? That took you forever," she whined, even if he could see a faint smile on her face.

"My future duty as the Duke of Riegan, Lady Goneril." He opened the carriage door and climbed inside.


	5. On Manservants and Refugees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first story, Oswald asked Claude daily "What did you see?"as part of his education of Claude to become Duke Riegan.

Thank the Goddess for Aaron de Janvier. He arrived midday and met them in the Duke's bedroom while the Riegans played another game of chess and talked. Claude almost felt like sobbing with relief; he was already tired of cold meals and the worst of his clothes being left out to wear. "Get yourself settled and then we'll talk. Bring your lunch to my rooms when it's time."

Aaron bowed. "Very good."

Grandfather chuckled as Aaron retreated. "Still can't call you by just your name, eh?"

"I'm so close, I can feel it." He scanned the board, and took a bishop with his knight. "Check."

"Risky." Several moves later, they declared a stalemate. "Off you get, enjoy your afternoon." Marcel entered with a bowl of brothy soup; this one smelled like beef. Grandfather sighed. "My favorite."

Aaron brought him his own meal as he slipped back into his apartment; two place settings of mince pie and some fresh greens. "How did you convince them to give me something other than soup?" Claude gestured he sit. Gods, this was _heaven_ compared to the watery stuff Grandfather had been reduced to.

A hesitation, and he settled down beside his master. "You're the only noble who would prefer the servant's meal over the lord's."

"Broth and cold eggs three days in a row has made me desperate. Marcel," he explained when Aaron raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I don't feel guilty about telling the kitchen I was bringing Marcel his meal, then." At last, he picked up his service and began to eat.

Claude snorted; oh, let the old prig enjoy the soup. "Did you bring my shaving kit? Grandfather is running out of jokes about my beard, I can tell."

His table manners were better than his master's, Claude noted with a smile. "It's on your dressing table. The cart should be here day after next with your clothes and other things that I couldn't carry. How long will we be in Derdriu?"

"At most a year. We might be able to go to the manor from time to time, however." He paused, waited until Aaron had swallowed. "Grandfather's not going to live much longer."

"I see." They ate in silence for awhile. Claude poured tea; chamomile, bless Aaron. "I've heard a rumor that Marcel was promised a good living in the duke's will."

Interesting; he wondered if that was Godfrey's wish before his passing. "That makes it easier to convince him to quietly retire and stop plaguing me." He sipped his tea and pushed a list over to Aaron. "I need you to go into town with me this afternoon and make some inquiries. I also need a tailor's appointment, I forgot yesterday when I was in the market. Don't let me forget this time."

Aaron scanned the list and then looked up at his smirking lord. "This is a lot of beans and wheat."

"I hope to feed a lot of people."

* * *

The day was even more beautiful than yesterday, the sky the most perfect blue Claude had ever seen; Derdriu ought to have been ashamed of its picturesque spring, a stark contrast to the tasks set before the heir of Riegan as he crossed the threshold into the refugee camp that afternoon. "There are a lot more Almyrans than Faerghans," Aaron murmured beside him as they walked; they had deliberately started on that side of the camp. 

"Look, here's another lord looking for pretty girls," someone muttered in Almyran.

"At least this one is young and pretty himself," someone else laughed. "Even his bodyguard is handsome, for a Fodlander."

Claude stopped and turned toward the voices, and spied hair a shocking white against weathered, wrinkled faces; nomad women if he knew anything. "Thank you for thinking I'm handsome, grandmothers," he replied with a placid smile. "Have there been men coming and taking women from the camp?" _That ends now._

She shrugged, but peered at his face with open suspicion. "They say they need maids and cooks, but they only take the young, pretty ones. Everyone knows what that means." Her eyes pierced him right through. "You speak like a native."

"I had a good teacher." He gestured beside her. "May I sit?"

Another shrug. "You're the lord here, not me." That was permission enough, and after a pause, Aaron followed suit. "So if you're not here to steal girls, why are you here?"

"I just wanted to talk." He looked around, seeming careless, but he was taking note of all the interested parties pretending to be apathetic to his conversation with the matriarchs. "What do you think of Derdriu?"

"Cramped," the first woman said.

"Noisy," said another.

A younger woman leaned in from another circle of tents, a baby asleep in her arms. "And all these Fodlanders don't know the right way to ride a horse."

The old women cackled; Claude grinned. "They do have their own way of doing things here." They seemed to loosen at his smile. "What do you need?"

"Arrak," the woman with the baby replied dryly, causing another round of laughter. "And handsome men to drink with."

"Gods only know how we need that, Fatimah."

His face was going to get stuck with this smile; well, there were worse things. "I don't even think the Duke Riegan could make either of those happen, but I can ask him."

The first old woman peered at him again while the others laughed. "You're Claude von Riegan, aren't you? I've heard the Fodlanders talking about you, calling you the duke's bastard."

Aaron shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden hush over the crowd as they appraised Claude with new eyes, but Claude just snorted. "They can talk all day long." A risk, but he reached and touched her arm. "I do want to take you away from Derdriu, as many as I can, as I have a manor with a lot of open space. It won't be the most comfortable situation, but it's better than being stuck in tents in the city square, yes?" He looked around to the nodding heads, and allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

"And the Fodlanders, too?" He nodded, looking at Fatimah. She made a noise. "Well, beggars we are, so our choices are slim."

Claude stood, dusting himself off. "Talk it over. I've still got a duke to convince, after all." More heads nodded. Now, he had to do the same with the Fodlanders.

* * *

The next morning, Claude carefully sliced a curl of soap from the cake and dropped it into his shaving cup. Hot water from the pitcher, and he worked it into a lather and brushed it over his cheeks, just as Grandfather taught him. He pulled a cheek taut and swiped the blade over it, shivering at the bite of air on his exposed skin. He had this down to an art now, and even had carried on arguments with Lorenz through their shared dorm wall without missing a stroke or opening in the conversation. He would miss the beard, though; now he looked too young. 

There, that ought to be acceptable his grandfather. He checked for strays or errant lather, and then went to breakfast. Oatmeal, sausage, an apricot whole. He ate quickly, leaving the apricot; with any luck, he'd catch his grandfather alone.

Fruit in hand, Claude slipped through the passage and entered his grandfather's apartments. The old man was in the sitting room, attending his own breakfast. He rapped out their secret message; it was only polite. "Enter, my boy." A smile. "There's my grandson again."

"Good morning, Grandfather." He sat down, apricot rolling around in his hand; the old man noticed, too, and naked greed spilled over his face. "Do you think you can eat this?"

Rarely had he seen the old man smile so wide, and he pushed his plate and knife in front of Claude. "Cut it for me, would you?"

Even cut small, Grandfather took his time with each piece, chewing it with great care before swallowing. Claude wondered if he was savoring it or being especially careful so he wouldn't get caught with contraband snacks. "Did Aaron bring it from the manor?"

"Maybe." Claude popped a slice into his mouth. "A cart with my things will be coming in a couple days, I'm sure Enora will send a basket on if they're ripe enough."

Grandfather sighed, eyes closed as he took another bite. He smiled, heedless of another person in the room as he took his pleasure. "I haven't even been allowed toast or bread, so no jam."

"You're the duke, you could eat jam by the spoonful if you wanted." He leaned in as Grandfather snorted. "If we eat together, who's to say who is eating what?"

The old man's eyes gleamed; there was that crafty old man, the same one Claude thought himself a reflection of. "I miss fish most of all." And then he laughed when his grandson's nose scrunched. "Just once, my dear boy, that's all I ask."

"We all must make sacrifices in the name of the Leicester Alliance." He leaned his elbow on the table and nodded at the stack of letters beside his grandfather. "Anything of interest?"

"A couple movements, but it seems that the Imperial Army is waiting for some sort of signal before they move on Fhirdiad." A letter passed between them, bearing the Daphnel coat of arms impressed on the wax. Claude skimmed it; Judith was unsurprisingly detailed in her letters with the information her network of spies had gleaned. "You went into town."

He made a noise of confirmation. "Hilda's in Derdriu, so we went to the market." Claude folded the letter, surprised to see his grandfather watching him. "Yes?"

"What did you see?"

 _Ah, this game._ "Refugees from Faerghus and Almyra."

Grandfather nodded. "I'm running out of places for them. I can force the other lords to allow passage, but I can't force them to allow them on their lands."

He liked that he knew what his grandfather would say. "There's lot of room on the manor grounds, and the refugees seem amenable to the move." He shrugged. "I've got Aaron inquiring about wheat and beans. I plan to buy enough to feed two hundred people for six months."

The apricot gone, the Riegans looked at each other; despite his age, the old man's eyes were still a clear blue, unclouded. "It will be expensive."

He shrugged. "Better to stock now than attempt to do so in the middle of a war when the Imperials invade in earnest."

His grandfather considered his words, then picked up a small bell beside his plate and rang it. The door opened. "Claude will be taking over supervision of the refugees. Make sure Mr. de Janvier and my grandson have all the information and resources necessary to move them to the manor grounds."

"As you wish, your Grace."

"Thank you, Grandfather." Claude stood and picked up Judith's letter. "I'll be in the conference room if anyone needs me."

"Hold a moment." His hands worked, twisting off a gold signet ring with the Riegan coat of arms etched into the face, which he offered to his grandson. "I would still like to know about any major developments, of course."

Claude slipped the ring onto his right ring finger; it was still warm from the duke's hand. "So, I'm forgiven."

The old man chuckled. "Not until you make good on your promise with the fish."

"You drive a hard bargain, Duke Oswald." 

His grandfather laughed and took his hand, his dry skin rasping against Claude's calloused fingers, and then he bent over to place a kiss on his knuckles. "On your way, Duke Claude."

The conference room was cold, the fire unlit. Logs, kindling, and a twist of paper lighted with a match later, he had a decent start to a fire; at least he was back to wearing wools. Judith's letter in one hand and an eye on the map, Claude moved the tokens, and with each movement, he caught the glint of the morning light off the signet ring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrak is based on an anise-flavored liquor from the Middle East. 
> 
> I'm sure all the Faerghus nobles were just thrilled to listen in to Claude and Lorenz's daily wall argument.


	6. Khalid von Riegan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous story notes: Claude had found out his grandfather learned how to perform bloodletting on himself at a doctor's recommendation and helped him from time to time even though he had private objections to the practice.
> 
> In this story, Claude’s earring indicates he’s a prince in Almyra.

There was too much to do. Mornings Claude spent in the air in borrowed leathers, practicing with Failnaught; two runs through the range set up just outside Derdriu for him and his thighs ached from the effort of steadying himself as he fired, but there was no time for rest.

Afternoons were for letters and troop movements; he began to take his lunch in the conference room, leaving greasy fingerprints as he read; they were destined for the fire after he had finished with their contents. In a journal he marked the progress of the armies, hoping to see the flow of the battles.

"You're even busier than me," Claude commented when Aaron brought their dinner to Grandfather's room; barley soup for one duke, and a Nuvelle hen roasted whole for the other. Between his manservant duties, there was the coordination of moving the refugees with all the supplies needed for that task; come next week, they would escort them east to the manor.

"Doubtful. You fell asleep with a glass of wine in hand last night." Claude groaned, even as his grandfather laughed; he had hoped the old man wouldn't learn that Aaron found him in the sofa the next morning and the saw the carpet's new avant-garde design.

Grandfather considered the steward. "Tomorrow's Sunday, so take the day. You'll be of no use if you don't take a rest from time to time."

"Your Grace is too kind."

Once he had withdrawn, Claude began to cut into his fowl; carefully he carved a breast into pieces and set them on the edge of his grandfather's bowl. "He wouldn't listen to me, so hopefully that's done the trick."

The old man laughed. "He's very attached to you, my dear boy, and it makes him work hard."

Sunday, he found a puzzle. Claude was at lunch, moving tokens for the troops based on the most recent letters, and he marked the changes in his book. Once completed, he took a step back and looked at the continent as a whole. _How odd_. The Imperial position around Arianhrod made no sense; Edelgard acted as if it was already taken. He rubbed his eyes, thinking; who controlled the Silver Maiden? Count Rowe, if he remembered his Faerghus geography lessons. _Shit_. Claude left the room in a hurry, back through the palace to the ducal apartments. _How did we miss this?_ He broke into a run.

Marcel put a hand up as he approached. "Yes, I know, he's very tired, needs rest, all that," Claude commented before he pushed his way past. Grandfather sat on a sofa with his shirt removed, a doctor nearby busy with something on the old man's arm. 

He stopped. The old man was surprisingly hairy, covered in white fuzz all down his arms and chest, and the Crest glowed there almost dazzling with light, a major manifestation in all its glory. There were angry welts all over his body, and it took a moment for Claude to understand as the doctor pried something black and swollen from his grandfather's arm; _so it's leeches now._ Grandfather cleared his throat. "Would you mind?" His grandfather looked at him, expectant, and he turned around to give him some privacy. "What's got you in such a rush?"

There were too many ears, even if it was a doctor; who knew what hid in the walls? "Marcel!" It came out angrier than he expected, but still the door opened. "Clear out the rats."

A beat, two beats. "Do as he says, please," his grandfather said softly. "Thank you, Etienne." Two doors; one opened, one shut as the doctor left and Marcel slipped into the walls. He heard the rustle of fabric. "What's so important that you've invaded my privacy so?"

"I'm sorry, Grandfather." He rocked on his heels. "I really have to object to the leeching, though. Does it really keep you from coughing blood?"

"Are you a doctor now as well as a duke?" Another rustle of fabric. "I'm decent now." He turned around; Grandfather buttoned his jacket just as they heard a tapping on the wall to indicate the spies had been flushed out from the walls. "Well, come sit and tell me what's got you in such a lather."

He settled beside him on the sofa. Grandfather smiled, a bit indulgent. "Edelgard has Count Rowe. There's been problems in southern Faerghus for years after the church executed Christophe Gaspard." There were rumors that there was no love lost between Rowe and the church, either, something about a member of their house being kicked out of the academy some years ago.

"You're sure?"

He nodded. They were so fixed on Fraldarius all else was overlooked. _Blind, stupid, stuck_. "Every troop movement confirms it. She's not waiting to have enough troops to take Arianrhod, she's ignoring the fortress as if it doesn't exist. We need to call a council."  
A nod back; his grandfather looked troubled. "Write the letters, and I will have them sent."

* * *

Four hundred and fifty six people; Aaron counted every refugee that would be coming to the manor. Three hundred twelve Almyrans, forty six of them men; the rest were women and children. One hundred forty four Faerghans, five men. The income from the port and the rest of the Riegan lands helped them bring so many people; Claude liked to think a lesser man his age would waste all those funds on drinking and whores. His grandfather told him once he himself had been a young duke, and he wondered if he was a responsible man or a scoundrel back then.

 _If only we could bring everyone._ There were still too many being left behind; some were too pregnant to make the trip, others too infirm. Claude checked the straps on his saddle, distrustful of the job the stablehands had done on them. He heard a cough, and Fatimah came to stand beside him, tugging straps he had not checked. Her baby gurgled at him from his bundle against her chest. "It would not do for the crown prince of Almyra to hurdle to his death because of some improperly tightened straps," she murmured as they worked.

He laughed. "Is that your theory on me?" She seemed to have become the spokesperson for the Almyran refugees, something he nor Aaron minded much, even if the steward was decidedly uncomfortable with her joking with Claude in a familiar way.

"About a third of the camp thinks you are, another third think you're some bastard of the Riegans and don't know what that earring means in your mother's culture, and the other third don't care enough to have an opinion either way." Her fingers unhooked a strap and rethreaded the buckle. "Lazy Fodlanders."

"And what makes you so sure the second third aren't correct?" Now she was undoing a strap he had just checked, fastening and tightening it to her satisfaction. "If you're right, you could make a lot of money selling that information to most of the lords of the Leicester Alliance."

She tossed her braid over her shoulder with a snort of contempt. "You and your grandfather are the only men worth your titles in all of Fodlan. The others spit on us when they weren't trying to get up our skirts." They walked around to the other side of the wyvern. "Before he got too sick, he would visit the camp every Sunday and tried to talk to every new person there. His Almyran is awful, so he didn't teach you."

That was true; at least Grandfather tried. "You still haven't answered my question."

Fatimah tugged on a strap, perhaps a bit harder than she should have. "My village was burned to the ground in the war, and when we fled we ran into the royal army. I saw the Starry-Eyed and the Demon Queen." She shook her head. "I never realized until then that it was the prince with the Fodlander wife who survived the sacking of the capital." Now she was loosening the strap she had just overtightened. "When I first saw you at the camp, I thought I was seeing the prince's ghost."

 _Mom. Papa_. Claude felt his heart clench at the thought of them in the thick of battle; Papa had never really liked to fight and train. "Does your husband fight in the war?"

A pause. "Masud died trying to help everyone escape the village." She drew in a shuddering breath, tugging on one last strap. "Be well, whoever you might be."

The trip for one on horseback from Derdriu to the manor was half a day in good weather; with over five hundred on foot including their guards, it was expected to take three days in all. Claude mounted. Over the field near the vanguard, he could see Aaron astride Savash, the gelding's black coat shining in the sun. With a click of his tongue, the wyvern's wings began to beat. A command from the front, and the column of refugees began to move.

There was just something lovely about being in the air. He drifted above in lazy circles, watching the march. The children ran and tumbled around the edges, playing and laughing in the grass just off the road; he was sure their mothers watched to make sure no one was left behind. Some of the older children had made simple bows from green limbs, and they watched the grass and copses for movement. He smiled as a small group of them wandered off toward a disturbance in the grass; a third were Fodlanders and the rest Almyran. A momentary wish to join them crossed his mind, but he thought better of it; let the children have their fun, he would find another quarry to practice his own archery skills.

They halted in the early evening, hoping they would have enough light to set up camp. Claude landed a good ways away from the rearguard to dismount. Another surprise; as he landed, he found himself an audience of some of the older children, mostly Almyrans. "Our moms said we should help you with your tack, seeing as you're a lord."

Claude began to unlatch straps, shrugging. "Only if you want to. I can manage on my own." About half wandered off, but others came closer and began loosening straps on the saddle. "How many know how to look for scale rot?"

"I do," one girl said, and then she blushed as Claude grinned at her.

"Good, because he had that problem just a few weeks ago. Could you find a man named Aaron de Janvier and ask him where my kit is? He'll know what you mean." She nodded and ran off, her hair floating behind her in the breeze. 

"Um, Mister Lord Riegan?" A quavering voice from the other side of the wyvern said in Fodlandic.

"Just Claude will do. What is it?"

"Where did you learn Almyran?"

Now that the cat had been freed from the bag, he'd never hear the end of the question. "Would you believe me if I told you it was Nader the Undefeated?" It wasn't a _total_ lie, in his defense; most of the curses he knew he'd learned from the general.

"I don't know who that is." Claude chuckled, and the voice continued. "There was an old man who came to the camp a few times, he spoke both. He taught some of us a little."

Two of the taller children helped him slide the saddle from the wyvern's back, and they were rewarded with a soft grunt of relief from the creature. "That would be my grandfather, I imagine. Fatimah told me he came to see the camp sometimes."

"That was Duke Oswald?" He laughed again at their wondering tone. "Would you teach us more? Its just, well, we were trying to hunt today and it was hard when we couldn't understand each other."

That was how Claude found himself surrounded by a sizable population of the refugee children, counting on his fingers in two languages. Some of the mothers stood just out the circle of his fire, watching as he went over numbers, hello, goodbye, thank you, you're welcome, yes, no. He taught them how to say "You're pretty" and "You're handsome" which made the older children blush and steal shy glances at each other and made some of the women laugh. "Any requests?"

One of the adults shouted a curse word with a laugh, and Claude grinned. "Maybe I should do an adult-only lesson after the children have gone to sleep." He spied Aaron carrying plates toward the fire. "We'll pick this up tomorrow." A small chorus of protests, but the adults shooed the children away to attend their own stomachs.

"I'm sorry to have interrupted," Aaron sat beside him as the crowd disbursed. He frowned as one of the plates changed hands. "Especially for such a dinner." 

A soldier's fare; hot, filling, and bland. If the children were successful in their hunts, perhaps they could have a bit of elk or deer tomorrow. Still, food was food, and it had been a long day. Claude shrugged as he swallowed. "I've got no complaints."

"You seemed to enjoy yourself."

Claude looked up at the stars himself, tongue rolling around his mouth as he considered how to respond. It was always a risk to expose himself this way, to indulge his desire to breathe out the fat, delicious syllables of his mother tongue; lately even his dreams were in Fodlandic, something that depressed him. "Did you see the way their faces lit up when they understood and got the words right? If it means that little Fodlanders and little Almyrans can talk to each other, I'd risk a lot more." He caressed the signet ring on his finger; he was Duke Riegan after all, and he dared anyone try to remove him from that seat now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, I'm finally on a good footing with this story, so hopefully I can put the chapters out a little more quickly. The first few chapters were rough.


	7. A Taste of War

On the second day of their march the morning came in misty and cool. Laughter rang out across the camp as they began to undo the work from the night before, breaking up their temporary home for the first time, taking turns eating, feeding children, and working. Claude smiled as he walked through the camp, listening to the broken conversations between refugees; they were rapidly developing common hand signals when the language barrier was too much, and he felt warm inside as he looked on. Some of the children had been intent on starting the hunt early, and with a few choice warnings were allowed to wander into the copses nearby in search of deer and elk.

Instead, they found Eagles.

They came pouring out of the tree line, dozens of Imperial soldiers in their heavy black armor chased the screaming children. Their escort shouted a warning; at least most of the Riegan soldiers were already in their gear and ran to meet their guests. More shrieking. _We have to get them out of here._ Claude shouted, "Run!" The older adults herded children, but he saw more than one Almyran mother hand a baby off to anyone who would take them in arms. Knives came out of skirts, some grabbed green bows from their children and slung quivers over shoulders; he had best do the same, and grinned as Aaron came running with Failnaught in hand. There was no time to saddle and mount; he would have to do this on foot.

Claude planted his feet, watching the melee. Aaron picked up a fallen sword and swung it with some skill as he cut down their attackers. Arrow nocked, the bow warmed in his hand. One of the women struggled against a knight, holding him still with nothing more than a heavy knife against his steel-tipped spear. Not for long. Blood spewed out from under his visor, an arrow blooming in the gap of his gorget. _One_.

An Imperial had torn off his helmet as blood streamed from a cut in his hair into his eyes, and found an arrow buried in one of his eye sockets. _Two_. There, a soldier trying to sneak around to snatch a child from her mother's arms; to their credit, neither screamed when their attacker sprouted feathers in the center of her forehead and slumped. _Three. Four. Five. Six._ He alternated between languages as he counted, an old trick to keep himself calm.

"Claude!" He heard a shout, saw Aaron racing to him with panic etched on his face. 

He turned; there was a man with an axe approaching fast. Failnaught was like fire as he nocked, the man nearly on him when he let the string loose. The arrow hardly slowed as it passed through the man's skull and out the other side. _Seven_. "That's the first you've said my name, keep it up."

Aaron sighed; there was blood running from a gash in his arm, his shirt in tatters around it. "This is not the time for jokes, your Grace."

"Or conversation." But the battle had turned, and there were only a few of their attackers left. "Try to capture one, at least!" This broke the last of them, and with a clatter, the battalion fled. "Chase them down!" Claude looked down at number seven, and he pushed him over onto his back. _How did an Imperial battalion get so deep into Leicester territory without being noticed?_ "We need to move the refugees, and tend to the wounded."

"Is it over?" Someone demanded as Claude approached the refugees who had retreated to the other side of the road.

He nodded. "Anyone who knows faith magic, please stay behind to help heal the wounded. Everyone else, please keep walking on the road until you come to a bend, and wait for us there."

"We still have to pack up camp," one of the old men protested. "We might be old, but we're not useless. We've seen dead bodies. Send the mothers and the children, but let us help." Claude licked his lips and nodded again.

Four of theirs died; three soldiers and one of the Almyran women. "She died a good death," Fatimah murmured as she came to stand beside him, her face bruised, but she had shaken off the healers when they came to look at it. "I can't speak for the soldiers, but I imagine they did as well."

"Needless death is never good, no matter what any Almyran war priest might try to tell you," he replied. He drew in a shuddering breath, and he began to walk among the field of battle to examine the corpses of their enemy, looking for clues. "I killed my first man at twelve, but I've never found any glory in it."

"An assassin coming to kill a princeling?"

Exhaustion was setting in, and he felt too tired to think of worming his way around her question. "No, it was just some skirmish between peoples, kind of like this one. He'd slipped around the main forces and thought to gut all the tackhands. Lucky he met me first, because some of those boys pissed themselves when they saw the body." He frowned and bent over to turn a body; a sick feeling climbed from his stomach, creeping up his spine. _These aren't Imperials._ He tore a piece from the soldier's uniform and clenched it in his fist. "Let's go back."

He found Aaron in a tent they had hastily erected for the injured, a rag stuffed between his teeth; not a rag, the sleeve of his ruined shirt. An Almyran woman had needle and fishing twine in hand, sewing up the cut on his arm. "Almost done."

Claude rocked back on his heels, impatient as his steward grunted with each flash of the needle that dipped in and out of his skin. At last it was tied and cut, and Aaron spit out the gag. "Can we have the tent, please?" He held out the bit of the soldier's uniform once they were alone. "This was what one of our supposed Imperials was wearing."

Aaron's fingers ran over the embroidered coat of arms for house Acheron, and then he looked up at Claude. "What do you want me to tell Duke Oswald?"

His face buried in his hands, fingers tangled in his curls, Claude closed his eyes and thought. "Tell him to summon Acheron to Derdriu, and to send some men with carts to bring the bodies back to the city. I want him in Derdriu before the conference, but I will deal with him." Even if he claimed ignorance that they were his own men, he would pin the rat for allowing Imperials across Myrddin.

"As your Grace wishes."

He snorted, a bitter taste coating his tongue. "If I wasn't a duke, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with."

* * *

Her name had been Nisren. She was from the Almyran side of the Throat, born and raised in the foothills where they raised goats and sheep. There, where the ground was hard in the winter and rocky in summer, they burned their dead.

Claude watched as the women carried her body wrapped in cloth to the pyre. Usually the shrouds were white and new, but there wasn't much in the caravan, so she was wrapped in strips of scrap cloth; unsullied parts of Aaron's ruined shirt, a couple spare skirts, and one of Claude's more ill-fitting suits that had been packed to give to a stablehand. Despite death, the body smelled sweet; someone had found a lilac bush near the stream where they washed Nisren, and blooms had been tucked into the wrappings. Her boy wailed. He might be an orphan now, as no one knew if his father lived.

Her body seemed so small on the pyre as it was set down on top of the wood. Claude felt strange; maybe it was the exhaustion of the day, or perhaps it was such an odd sight to see an Almyran funeral in this verdant place. The others who had died, his soldiers, their bodies were being taken back to Derdriu to their families to be buried; that he could easily picture, his memory of the funeral for Jeralt weaving through his mind.

A torch was lit from one of the campfires, and the bearer looked around before walking over to Claude. Fatimah's jaw was set hard as she offered it to him, and he could feel a thousand eyes on him as they stood there. "Nisren died for you, will you send her on?"

 _She won't be the last._ The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He looked at the pyre; once, he told that redheaded girl from Faerghus, Annette, about how back home people would dance around a fire wailing songs like beasts. He took the torch and as he walked toward Nisren's final resting place, the swaying began as the Almyrans took up a funeral chant.

There were lavender and lilac flowers in the pyre, tucked into the kindling at the base. Claude touched the spot with the fire until it caught, and then walked clockwise around to set the other kindlings alight on each side as the singing picked up into a more fevered pitch and the Almyrans danced wilder and wilder until some fell onto the ground, exhausted from their mourning display. 

He heard more singing, and he looked toward the sound; some of the Faerghans had taken up a song, a funeral hymn he remembered hearing that day they buried the Blade Breaker. _At least it doesn't mention the Goddess._ He had no patience for that, not today.

Claude looked back at the pyre, the whole of it nearly alight now. He tossed the torch on top and stepped back as the fire began to blaze in earnest, flames licking high into the air as if eager to reach the heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and set it aside for a couple days like I usually do, and then while I was playing through the game again I got Claude and Annette's support unlocked and made some edits. I forgot about that bit completely.


	8. Home Sweet Home

It took four and a half days to arrive at the manor; Claude hardly slept the last three of their journey, as every time he closed his eyes he thought he could feel someone clasping their hands around his windpipe. Flying half-asleep was a dangerous thing, but this wyvern was well trained enough to fly in circles above the company without much direction from his rider, and soon enough they arrived at the manor.

The summer house had long been the retreat of the Riegans to spend summers away from the city, and before he had left for the academy, it had been Grandfather's gift to Claude, complete with his own personal household to do with as he saw fit. It was a happily situated place with the main house facing the road; the back rooms boasted views of the large meadow and pond that would be the temporary home of his newest neighbors. 

Enora fretted at the door as he landed, the rest of the company trailing behind; her smile was heaven to him. "I was so worried when that rider came on ahead." She took his face in her hands as soon as he dismounted. "At least you're not hurt. Where's Aaron?"

"I sent him back to Derdriu to inform Grandfather. I'm sure he'll be along in a day or two. _And I'll be leaving again._ "We have a few wounded who need beds in the house." From the air he saw the construction of four new buildings, little more than barracks for the refugees until they could figure out more permanent housing, but for now, it was back to tents and bonfires for most.

"Everything's ready." She glanced down as he removed his gloves. "Your Grace."

He groaned. "Don't you start, too." She laughed and pinched his cheek. To work.

They helped the most wounded inside; two women with broken limbs, a soldier who had gotten knocked unconscious and was still talking nonsense, and three who had fallen off horses and bruised quite extensively. By the time that was done, Enora had a thick rabbit soup and a cup of valerian and chamomile tea ready for him. "Go eat outside," she said, shooing him with her hands. "Let us handle this."

The refugees were setting up tents in the meadow, and he watched the scene from the back veranda while he ate. The sun dipped low, the clouds stained pink in the fading light of the day. Mothers fussed at children to stay away from the pond and the woods, other children climbed the tree that shaded Claude's favorite napping spot on the grounds, the elders sat in a circle and talked, Almyran and Fodlander alike, and he caught the smell of something roasting, perhaps the two deer that had been hunted the day before. Hopefully they would be able to make enough bread for everyone, or figure out how to do so quickly.

A commotion from the house, and Enora emerged followed by the woman with the broken arm, also named Fatimah. Frustration was writ large on both their faces. "She doesn't speak Fodlandic, and I can't give her willow tea if she's pregnant."

Fatimah's lips pressed thin in her anger. "She's giving the soldiers something for pain but won't give it to me or Leili."

He cleared his throat. "Enora wants to know if you're pregnant because the tea can hurt the baby." She shook her head. "Could you ask Leili the same thing?"

They went inside, and Claude was alone again. He could see children a few feet from the veranda, watching him as he ate; he supposed it was different now that he was being fussed at in all his dukely glory, eating on fine porcelain dishes edged with gold outside the oversized house where he was the principal occupant. Ten servants to attend to one man, eleven when Aaron was in residence with him, and that didn't count the stablehands and farmers that worked the land at large. Tomorrow they would pick back up their lessons; tonight he just wanted to finish his tea and stumble to bed. Doubtful he even had enough energy to get fully undressed before the valerian dragged him under.

Enora appeared one last time, this time with something sweet; berries and cream, unsugared the way he liked. "Eat quickly, you're practically falling asleep already," she murmured, and with a light touch on his shoulder, left again. Claude smiled and picked up his spoon; it was good to be home.

* * *

Warm, dark, safe. Someone else's soft skin on his back, muscular arms, lips ticklish on his ear and neck. "Khalid," the familiar voice said. A panic; he couldn't move, his body stubborn in its refusal to listen to anything he demanded. He wanted to get away from the body, to gain his reason again, to get away from that warm laugh. "But you don't really want to get away, do you?" Tender hands on his hips, teasing his thighs, his erect-

Claude started awake, gasping for air. It was still dark in his bedroom; what time was it? Sticky again. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, and his feet found the floor by some miracle. He groped his way through the bedroom to the water closet; the basin of water on his dressing table would be cold, but he definitely needed to cool off anyway.

 _Why?_ He thought about it as he cleaned up. The voice spoke, impossibly, in Almyran, and that name again, his secret from another life. He had not heard that spoken for over a year, and even then only in a whisper from his Grandfather; they should be the only two in all of Fodlan who knew that name to be his.

The moon hung slivered over the meadow. Claude opened his window and leaned against the sill to watch the flutter of the tent canvas in the light breeze. There was a fire near the edge of the encampment, a few adults around it. He wondered if they had agreed on keeping a watch, or if like him they couldn't sleep. No, he realized as he looked closer; they were women nursing babies. They really couldn't get the shelters set up quickly enough, and he added hiring more carpenters to his list of things to do in Derdriu.

Too awake now, he lit a candle and changed into soft pants and a loose shirt to wander downstairs. If he was lucky, it would be too early even for the bakers and the kitchen would be empty; even dukes were subject to being fussed at in Enora's domain. 

Candle in one hand and a plate of yesterday's bread and cheese in the other, Claude climbed the stairs to the solar. To tell the truth, it was his favorite room in all of Fodlan. The libraries at Garreg Mach and the palace might have provided some competition, but they lacked the comforting memories of this cozy sitting room. When he thought his parents dead and Almyra lost to him forever, it was here he spent hours pretending to read or half-heartedly challenging his grandfather to games as grief and rage ate him from the inside out, and he suspected it would be a place of solace for him for a long time coming.

A fire started in the hearth, he blew out his candle and settled on a divan under the window to look out over the meadow again. The moon provided just enough light to eat. _The stars are the same here as in Almyra._ It never failed to amaze how he could see the same constellations here and on the other side of the mountains. He followed their curves with his eyes, all the stars Papa showed him on the nights when he couldn't sleep and he climbed onto the palace roof: the Axe of the Warrior, the Cursed Dragon, the Wanderer's Star. "You were born under that star, and it shows," Papa laughed when he said it. Back then he had pouted and protested that he never went anywhere interesting; now he laughed at himself in his memories. The little forgotten prince had no idea just how far flung his travels would be.

 _People try to kill me here, too._ He clenched his fist at the thought of Acheron; just what was that lackwit thinking? The possibilities were many, and he disliked not knowing which was most likely. The most disturbing was the thought that the melee was intended to fail to force Grandfather's hand. As if the old man wouldn't see right through their feint; even Edelgard would need to dream up a better scheme if she wanted to outwit Oswald von Riegan.

The stars faded as dawn crept, the sky bluing before his eyes. Somewhere in the house he could hear movement as the maids and cooks came down from the servants' quarters to begin their days. Perhaps there were spare rooms up there, and they could house some of the infirm, the pregnant, those with sickly babies indoors. Hell, he'd give up his rooms if necessary.

Movement; three women walked across the meadow to the kitchen door. Curious, he watched; they were all older women, and at least one of them had become a caretaker for the children to give mothers a reprieve during the trip. Claude opened the window, hoping to catch their conversation with Enora, but it was too far away and they spoke too quietly.

There was really nothing for it; he had to know. Enora would worry at him being awake already, but he'd take that to scratch his itch of curiosity. So he gathered up his plate and wandered downstairs. By now, the women were inside the kitchen, chopping vegetables and kneading dough as if they worked there their whole lives. Faces turned to the door as he passed the threshold, and Enora shook her head even as she walked toward him, drying her hands on her apron. "That tea should have had you sleeping until noon."

He shrugged; she didn't need to know about the wildly inappropriate dream that woke him. "Maybe I'm building up a tolerance to your remedies." She sighed and pointed at a chair, and Claude sat obediently. "So I see we have new staff today."

"They wanted to help, and I'm not going to say no." The kettle was filled and put on the stovetop. "Soft eggs and toast?"

"You do make the best eggs." One of the Almyran women watched him even as she pressed her steady hands into a soft round of dough. "Thank you for offering your help, Grandma," he said.

Dough covered with a damp towel, she moved onto another round. "You took care of us, so it's only fair we do something for you." Her smile turned sly. "I bet I could cook you a meal so good you'll weep and make your mother envious."

Claude laughed. "Nothing will ever be as good as my mother's cooking, even if she burnt it black, I would still eat it with a smile."


	9. Teapots and Mages

After breakfast, Claude pulled on tall walking boots, pushed his unruly hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, and wandered out into the camp. A low mist settled over the meadow, and the dawn light shimmered and made everything seem a little unreal; it was days like this that made him fall in love the manor house. Grandfather had been right to gift him the place, as Claude never felt quite at peace anywhere in Fodlan but here with the broad meadow where he could read and nap the day away, the pond wide and deep enough to swim in, and the woods where he happily rooted the rot of fallen trees for mushrooms, both edible and not.

Today his solace was not solitary. The moment he emerged from the back door and walked off the veranda, he was mobbed by children, his attention pulled every which way as they all spoke at once. "Hey, slow down," he laughed as they babbled. "I only have two ears. Yes, I can teach you all more words, but right now I need to find Fatimah and Gigi." He repeated his query again, this time in Almyran. They scattered like leaves on the wind in their race through camp. Well, if the children were willing to do the work for him, he had time to provide something to engender goodwill.

He waited on the veranda with breakfast and a smile. Fatimah smirked as she walked up the steps, but he studied Gigi; they had not talked much, but he knew that the other refugees had put a large amount of trust in her. Something about having once worked for the Gautiers or some such. He gestured at the spread as they sat. "Bribery will get you only so far," Fatimah commented.

"Think it more like my apology for putting so much on you." He leaned on his elbows as they began to eat. "I want to know what the refugees need. I understand that some of the women might be reluctant to tell me or Aaron certain things, so I hope that they will come to you and we can get those needs filled." Gods, this was going to be tiring to have to say everything twice.

Gigi considered him. “We want to be useful. There's been talk of sewing or weaving if we had the means.”

Fatimah nodded as he translated to her. "Some have been saying they want to join in the planting or taking care of the animals." He cleared his throat, and she tapped the table with two fingers. "I know what you wish to say, but a lot of them are embarrassed to be taking your charity. You have more mouths to feed now and we can help."

"We're not the pampered ladies you're used to," Gigi commented. 

Claude laughed. "You haven't met my mother. There are fewer refined ladies in my circle than you'd expect." He nodded at the both of them. "Please, talk to the others, see if we can get a list. Aaron will keep track of it, and we can see what can be ordered."

"Not you?" Gigi raised an eyebrow. "Back to Derdriu for your Grace, then?" She paused. "I know those soldiers were from the Empire. Will the Leicester Alliance be at war soon?"

He understood what she wasn’t saying; they had fled Faerghus in preparation for all out war, and now they might be plunged into another with nowhere else to go. He shook his head. “No. I think perhaps they wanted to make it happen, but failed."

She considered him, and then in a soft, serious tone, "If it comes to that, I heard talk that Lord Sylvain is interested in a partnership with Leicester."

 _She didn't say the Margrave._ Well, if the apple of Gautier's eye could be pushed, perhaps it would push the father as well; the father and Fraldarius. That was promising, at least. "Thank you, I'll keep that in mind."

One task completed, he set his path down past where the road curved toward the manor; somewhere past the barns, work was being done to raise buildings. They wouldn’t be much more than barrack-style lodgings, but they would do for a winter. Come spring, if the refugees were still here, they could discuss more permanent lodgings, perhaps even a town. The buildings were skeletal at the moment, great beams criss crossing as they built the structure. “How many rooms will there be?” He asked the foreman who greeted him, a gruff man who seemed only a bit older than Aaron; Claude liked his serious approach to everything.

“Thirty each.” Claude did some quick math, frowning. “You brought more than originally discussed.”

He shrugged. “How many more carpenters will we need for five additional buildings?”

The man squinted. “You don’t need that many buildings for the number of people you have.”

“For now. We’ll have more.” _Wouldn’t hurt to have barracks in place later, either, if Leicester gets dragged into Edelgard’s war._ “I’ll hire as many people as possible, and buy whatever supplies are needed. Just provide my steward a list and he’ll take care of it.” Someone approached, and Claude turned, not quite believing his eyes; a gaggle of children approached with Lysithea von Ordelia at the center of it all, hardly taller than most of them. He had never seen her in anything but her school uniform; today, she wore a violet dress that brought out the color in her eyes and made the stark whiteness of her hair even more apparent. “Thank you.”

One of the children had her hand and was practically dragging her along. “See, I told you the duke was here,” he said defiantly. 

“Ugh, I wasn’t saying that I didn’t think he was here, but Claude’s not a duke.”

“Mama says he is,” the boy replied in the same tone, as if his mother’s word was law; not a bad attitude to have at his age.

Claude laughed. “Lysithea, what a surprise. What brings you out to my humble home?” He bowed as they came close. “Welcome to the Riegan manor.”

She huffed and poked him hard in the chest. “You know very well why I’m here. That scheme of yours was pathetically bad, especially for you.”

“Which scheme could you be referring to, and more importantly, how did you get here?” He had not seen or heard a carriage rattle up the lane.

Another huff. “I was waiting for you in Derdriu, and then your manservant showed up. He was kind enough to bring me here with him.”

So Aaron was back. _Finally._ He had begun fretting about the length of time it was taking for his return, but he knew the man could more than handle himself. “Walk with me.”

Children shooed away, he walked close to Lysithea in case she tripped on the uneven ground. “Having Hilda send me a letter instead wasn’t very clever. You know she never talks politics unless she has to.”

That’s what Hilda wanted everyone to think, so he supposed it was working. “Would you have accepted the request if it was from me?”

Lysithea’s glare could melt the most stubborn of glaciers; it was almost as deadly as her spell weaving. “Of course. I’m still a noble and serve the interests of Ordelia, even if you are a brat.” She gave him a curious look. “You’re not really the duke now, are you?”

In reply, Claude held out his hand with the signet ring, wiggling his fingers so it caught the light. “I’m pretty sure that’s what that means, anyway. Grandfather is too sick to get out of his apartment most days.” He cleared his throat. “I appreciate you leaning on Lorenz. If he knew it was me asking, we’d be overrun with Imperials by now.”

“Speaking of that,” she frowned. “I saw what happened as we passed the battle site. They weren’t really Imperials, were they?”

“Most likely not. As why they were dressed like them is something I still have to figure out.” _And not a conversation I want to have with anyone other than Grandfather._ “How do you like my manor?”

She rolled her eyes. “This is a small house for the Riegans? It’s bigger than the main house for Ordelia.”

“Pity. Perhaps if the Gloucesters betray us, I’ll give you his lands as a present.” This got a laugh out of her, and he nodded toward the house. “Shall we go in? I need to speak to my steward.”

He found Aaron with a sandwich and tea in the kitchen. Claude sat beside him; Enora handed him an apricot and set more cups down; Lysithea asked for honey and sugar for her tea. "How's your arm?"

A shrug. "Healing. His Grace insisted on having his own doctor look at it." He smiled a little when Claude sighed with relief. "You worry too much, it's only a cut."

"I saw you getting stitched up, it's hardly just a cut." He leaned on his elbows, rolling the fruit in his hands. “How’s Grandfather?”

Now the man sighed; rare of him to show any frustration. “He threw a teapot.” He couldn’t help himself, and Claude burst into laughter even as Aaron’s frown deepened. “There was tea and porcelain everywhere. The rug was a complete loss.”

“Which teapot?”

Aaron sighed again. “The green one with the leaves.”

“Aw, I liked that one.” Well, at least it wasn’t the late Duchess’ set with the peonies; Grandfather would have regretted it later. “Enora, could I have another couple of these packed in my things?” He gestured at the apricot still rolling around in his hands; after all, he had a duke to placate. “If anyone needs me for the next hour, I’ll be in the woods.” After all, it was ink cap season, and he had schemes to plot. Then he looked at Lysithea. “I can send a carriage back to bring you back to Derdriu or Ordelia territory, whatever you want.”

“I’m not staying here. You can take me back to Derdriu with you, please and thank you.”

Claude shrugged. “As you wish, Lady Ordelia.” He took a bite of the apricot and stood. “See you.”


	10. The Riegan War Summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiana's previous sobriquet before "The Demon Queen" was "The Traitor" in Almyra, so Claude is "of the Traitor's Blood."

Prince Khalid of the Traitor's Blood had long been the blackest sheep of all the Almyran royal family, a distinction previously held by his own father. Such high distinction came with a certain skill set from having spent a childhood ducking bored and malicious cousins while plotting his own revenge in turn, and all that due care and plotting and scheming had turned Claude von Riegan into a painfully deliberate man.

He imagined it was the same with his grandfather and his long years as the leader of the Alliance granting him both patience and cunning in equal measure, skills that had not dulled despite his years. So when Claude was ushered into Grandfather's sitting room and his grandfather smiled at him with a vicious gleam in his eyes, he almost felt pity for Acheron until he remembered the prick tried to murder him and a caravan full of mostly unarmed refugees. _Fuck that guy._ “So you are all right.”

Claude glanced down at the new rug spread near the apartment entrance. “So you really did throw a teapot.”

A nod. “Aaron left with little Lady Ordelia.”

He nodded back and sat down on the sofa next to his grandfather. “I brought her back.” Lysithea screamed and cursed his name the whole ride back; how was he supposed to know she was that terrified of flying? He had offered to send a carriage to the manor for her, after all. “So.”

A shake of his head, finger to his lips. Grandfather pulled a paper from his jacket, folded and sealed. Claude opened it; the old man’s Almyran writing was as clumsy as his speech, but it was legible enough. “Acheron doesn’t respond to direct threats well, too much fear. Increase tariffs on cotton through the port.” Tariffs was in Fodlandic. “Even if he comes in groveling, don’t give an inch. If defects, Gloucester would be more than happy to annex Myrddin. Use that.”

He needed a pen and ink. Letter folded, he walked over to his grandfather’s desk; funny how they set up their desk the same, and he knew exactly where everything would be. He scribbled back, “Ordelia will know, Lysithea saw. Need cover story before conference. We shouldn’t make this public about Acheron. Should use it to convince Gloucester that Acheron needs help securing border, Acheron can’t argue if we’ve pinned him on this.”

Grandfather read it and nodded, speaking aloud at last. “Pitch that, make sure it burns well. Tomorrow, we should go for a drive in the carriage if the weather holds.”

He took the page and began to tear it in pieces as he walked to the hearth; it burned more quickly this way. “Are you feeling up to that?”

“I’ll manage. I don’t have to work any longer if I don’t want, so I can take a nap in the afternoons when I want to.”

Grandfather chuckled at Claude’s frown. “Thanks for that.” Oh, he almost forgot, and an apricot was produced from one of his pockets. “Would you like me to cut this for you?”

“Yes, please. And fetch the chess board, there’s my boy.”

* * *

“I look ridiculous,” Grandfather muttered. The staff had thrown such a fuss that he would have a coughing fit if he caught cold during their outing, and the old man insisted on taking the open carriage that a compromise was in order or they would be stuck in the palace arguing all day. So now his grandfather stood in his sitting room while his grandson swaddled him in three different cloaks, looking very much like a head attached to a pile of fabric by the end.

Claude adjusted the cloaks over the old man’s shoulders. “We can take another carriage.” 

“Absolutely not. I want to enjoy the day.” He watched his grandson pin the cloak shut with a second pin. “I can’t use my arms, undo that.”

“Marcel’s orders. If we hit a bump, I’ll keep you from falling.” If he was going to be impossible, Claude would be, too, and he squinted at the old man. “Perhaps we should find your winter hat.”

“It’s the middle of spring.” Grandfather stuck out his chin in a particularly stubborn pose. “You might be my least favorite grandson right now.”

“Default rules say I’m also your favorite, seeing as I’m the only one.” There, that ought to placate the staff. “If your ears get cold, pull up the hood, please.”

A harrumph. “Which one? I’ve got three.”

“All of them, please and thank you.” His grandfather glared at him, and then the most impossible thing happened; the old man stuck out his tongue at Claude. He snorted. “You’re enjoying your retirement far too much.”

Finally, he smiled. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, if you really must know.” They began to walk through the palace.

“What, being idle? I can give you advice if you’d like.” He was a firm believer of having ample time to do nothing at all.

Grandfather laughed and shook his head. “No, watching you handle this without interfering more than I have. I want nothing more than to run that weasel through with a very dull sword at the moment.” A wistful look. “I don’t recall it being this difficult when my Godfrey took my place.”

There were no words; Claude understood what he meant to say. No one could have foreseen Godfrey’s assassination, and to see it acted out again had to be painful for his grandfather. He found the old man’s hand hidden the layers of cloak, and with a smile and clasped it in his own. The doors opened, and he helped his grandfather down the stairs to the courtyard and the waiting carriage. Clear skies, no breeze; it was a good day for a ride. A fleeting wish to fly crossed his mind, but that would require going back in and changing clothes, and he enjoyed any time with his grandfather he could get.

The carriage rocked in a pleasant way as they rode through Derdriu. Grandfather smiled as people bowed in his direction, and some people were even standing there with tears in their eyes. “You really are beloved here,” he commented, wondering if anyone would feel the same about him someday.

“Perhaps. Most people don’t remember any other duke. Godfrey wasn’t in power long enough for anyone to really get a feel for him as a leader. Pity, because he was a good man.” He heard rumors and whispers about his uncle, but his grandfather had nothing but praise for his late son; Claude suspected the truth of the man lay somewhere in the middle.

Out of the city and down the road a ways before Grandfather tapped Claude’s shoulder. “That’s far enough, Jean.” The driver clicked his tongue and soon enough the carriage stopped, pulled away from the road enough to allow other travelers to pass. “Take a long walk, I’ll find you after.”

“Very good, your Grace.” He landed on the soft turf without a sound and wandered off, whistling.

Claude helped his grandfather remove two of the cloaks; out here in the sun it was too warm for the old man, and the old man sighed with relief as the fell from him shoulders. “I will admit it was comfortable during the drive.”

“Sometimes Marcel has a good idea.” Claude leaned back against the carriage seat and sighed as the sunlight warmed his face. “So, Acheron.”

Grandfather tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Your plan is a sound one. Gloucester’s vassalage to the Empire is nothing more than self-preservation at this point, and he knows his only allies in supporting capitulation to Adrestria are Acheron and Albrecht, everyone else is opposed to the move. Even Anatole is in opposition, so he’s the lone vote on the council. That alone will keep the Alliance intact, provided Adrestria continues to focus on Faerghus first.”

The sky really was a lovely blue today. “Edmund doesn’t have the troops, and a war within our borders would interrupt trade too much for his liking, I imagine.”

A laugh, though Claude could hear a sour note in there. “Bad for Edmund and good for Derdriu, as no one will want to risk a smaller port in turbulent times. Perhaps we should go to war against that little girl to increase our port taxes while we can.”

That was too big of a risk, they both knew that. “If I did that, I’d have even more refugees and fewer places to put them.” He stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his head. “I think they’re going to settle in just fine at the manor.”

“You really ought to shame them on that point, my boy. Really spill out a tale about all those poor women coming under attack.” Grandfather cleared his throat. “You’re not going to like this suggestion.”

Claude glanced at the old man’s face, drawn and serious. “The eastern boogeyman?”

He nodded; Claude sighed. “Your father is winning, which is not the outcome most of the Leicester Alliance thinks is the preferred outcome. Goneril in particular is nervous about the end of the Almyran war and what might happen at the end, as he would be taking the brunt of any Almyran invasion.” Now his grandfather sighed. “We know so little about Almyran politics.”

“Don’t ask me, I was, ah, not allowed access to that kind of information.” Papa knew a bit more and was usually the first pick for any diplomatic meetings. _Perks of being the least bloodthirsty._

They basked in the sunlight for a bit, warming their faces in the gorgeous spring day. Then he heard his grandfather licked his lips. “If your father becomes king, you could treat with him to take our refugees.” Claude opened his eyes; the old man stared at him. “Take the opportunity if it comes. I fear this war is inevitable.”

He nodded. “I wish it wasn’t.”

A hand patted his knee. “All we can do for now is keep Gloucester under our heel. If anyone’s clever enough to accomplish that, it would be you, my dear boy.” Grandfather leaned over and kissed his temple, smiling as if he didn’t see Claude blinking away tears. “Go fetch Jean, would you? I’m ready to go back.” Small mercies; the walk would give him a chance to compose himself, at least.


	11. Hubert Fucks Up

There were few joys as pure as Grandfather's delight in eating his grandson's meals. Today's lunch was cod, and the old man practically quivered as Marcel set down the plate in front of Claude and chicken soup before Grandfather. "That's all for now." They waited until the door was shut, and Claude went to switch their plates before he shook his head. "Cut it for me, would you? There shouldn't be any, but it wouldn't do if we got caught because of a pin in my throat."

"I will never understand your love of fish." Grandfather picked pieces off the plate with his fingers as Claude worked. At his rate the soup would be cold; a small price to pay for the old man’s whims. "So, Acheron will be here today."

"That is the theory, yes. He's a weasel, so if he actually shows is another matter." Grandfather poured tea for them as Claude continued to build his boneyard on the edge of his plate. "Are you certain you wish to do this alone? I don't mind coming along, even if it's just to see you cut him down a dozen sizes or so."

He paused in his hunt to sip tea and steal his grandfather's meal; at least there was bread to soak in the broth. "Consider it my first act as duke proper. It would look better if I didn't have my grandfather there as if I needed to clutch your apron strings still."

A chuckle, and then a sigh as he swallowed another bit of the fillet. "They could at least make fish soup from time to time." There was a knock on the door. "Enter."

A maid entered and curtseyed. "Your Grace, begging your pardon, but I couldn't find Mr. Bonhomme to tell him, and well," she blushed, tripping on her tongue.

"Out with it, girl." It wasn’t said unkindly, but he knew that his grandfather’s brusque manner could be intimidating at times.

More stuttering and blushing. "Well, there's a man here, his name is Marquis Vesta, and he's here to talk to you about Lord Acheron."

Claude shot Grandfather a look, but the old man's face was passive as he looked at the maid. "Have him put in a sitting room on the ground floor and make sure he's offered tea and refreshments. We'll see him after our meal."

She cleared her throat. "Your Grace, the lord seemed to be in an awful hurry."

Grandfather held the silence for a handful of heartbeats. "I was unaware that Marquis Vestra is master of this house." He picked up his fork and went back to picking at the cod fillet. "You're dismissed."

The door shut hard, and Claude heard a squeak of alarm from the other side. "Well, that's interesting."

His eyes were fixed on the plate, but the old man didn't seem interested in eating any longer; they both seemed to have lost their appetites. "Fetch the twenty squares board, please."

By the time he returned with the ivory and gold set tucked under his arm, the plates had been pushed away, and in their place, a clear expanse of table to set the board. Grandfather was writing something on a piece of paper, and he pushed it toward Claude as he sat down. Two words: "Doting Grandfather?"

Claude considered it as Grandfather set up the board; the pebble was noted with a raised eyebrow but no comment. Playing up the old man’s affection for him would irritate Hubert, certainly. "Think you can conjure up a coughing fit? I'll fuss over you appropriately." He pushed the paper back and continued setting up as Grandfather read.

They played half-heartedly, ignoring the board to read and respond. "I'll stick a bone in my mouth if I have to."

He shook his head. "What would Marcel say?"

“Hang Marcel. He’s not master of this house, either.”

“Remind me to grab a couple handkerchiefs." During one of their rare squabbles, Hilda had convinced half the female populace of Garreg Mach that was his preferred gift; even after giving them away discreetly as possible, he still had scores embroidered with sunflowers and daisies. The ones from Hilda he liked, edged in elegant repeating patterns just on the edge of the fabric.

"Lover's tokens, sacrificed for the good of the Leicester Alliance."

"For Goddess and country."

"Doting Grandfather, Concerned Grandson?"

Claude nodded and folded the paper, standing up as he did so. Properly shredded, it went into the fire and he poked it until there was nothing but ash. “Let’s finish our game. I really think I’ve got a chance this time.”

Grandfather practically cackled with glee over his grandson’s spectacular loss; he hadn’t managed a single point against the old man. “You cheat.”

Another laugh. “Having fifty years on you is not cheating. You were too distracted by our conversation.”

He made a face; Grandfather smiled, still overly pleased with himself. “You should have played our esteemed guest instead.” Hubert was clever enough, but too narrow minded to ever hope to defeat his grandfather. “Wait for me, I’ll be right back.”

Pocket stuffed with handkerchiefs and Grandfather leaning on his arm, they began their walk to the sitting room where inconvenient guests were usually stashed; all the most uncomfortable chairs and the ugliest paintings adorned the room, and even Claude had to admit astonishment at the sheer pettiness his grandfather could stoop to at times. Mostly, though, it was just funny. “Stashed a bone in my sleeve for emergencies,” Grandfather murmured right before the door opened; Claude snorted.

Hubert had not changed; black clothes, lanky hair over his face, his usual look that was both sour and haughty. “Claude, Duke Riegan.”

“You know, Hubert, you really didn’t have to say my name twice. May I introduce my grandfather, Duke Oswald?” Claude gestured, making sure the signet ring was visible on his hand as he did so. If Hubert already knew, well, better to enforce it now and take the lead in the conversation; if not, hopefully it would put him off his game. “I hope the servants attended to your needs amiably.” He helped his grandfather sit.

“Service fit for a king, thank you.” At least he knew his manners.

Grandfather had a grip on his arm. “Be a dear and call for tea, would you? That’s my boy.”

“Of course, Grandpapa.” Grandfather suited Oswald better than anything else, but if this ploy was to work, they’d have to sell it. He rang the bell, and waited for a maid to appear; Marcel was still at his own lunch, no doubt. “Hello, can we get some rose tea, and soft bread with apricot jam? Thank you.”

“Such a dutiful grandson. To have such loyal and loving family is a blessing, is it not, Marquis Vestra?” Years of wearing a smile like a mask kept Claude from snorting, even as Grandfather smiled his own innocent one; such a thing to say to a man who murdered his father. 

Better to keep him dancing before he could find his footing after Grandfather’s jab. “You know, Hubert, I’m surprised you’re here. I thought Grandpapa’s letter was quite clear that I asked for Acheron to come see me. Why would the Minister of the Imperial Household be coming in the place of an Alliance lord to the summons of the sovereign duke?”

A thin smile. “I think there’s been a mistake. I’m here to collect our soldiers and bring their bodies back to their families.” Hubert looked as if swallowed a mouse whole. “And to express apologies at the mishap. It appears that battalion got a little lost.”

Tea arrived, and Claude fussed over pouring for Grandfather. “Be careful, it’s quite hot still.”

“Thank you, my dear boy. Always so thoughtful.” Then the old man’s attentions turned back to Hubert with those shrewd eyes. “If they came that deep into the Leicester Alliance on accident, might I suggest adding map reading to the qualifications for your battalion leaders? Pity that you don’t have Rodrigue on your side, I’ve heard he can track a deer for three days on nothing but fur snags on branches.” He sipped his tea. “This is a wonderful cup.”

Claude busied himself spreading jam on the biscuits brought with the tea. “I am curious about that, as well. Just where were they coming from? Either they came from the west, which is unlikely as they would have had to get through Judith, or they came from the south which means I still have questions for Acheron as to how he came to allow a full battalion of Imperial soldiers to cross Myrddin without comment.” Plate set in front of Grandfather, he murmured, “Remember, the doctor said small bites.”

If their needling was bothering Hubert, it had yet to show. “Apologies, but I can’t answer that question. State secrets, you know. We all have them.” He assessed Claude; something felt like it was crawling in his stomach, but damned if that smile didn’t stay stuck. “Everyone said you’d all but disappeared after Garreg Mach. Just what were you doing?”

Grandfather chose that time to choke, coughing into his hand. Handkerchief offered; there were saliva-soaked crumbs everywhere, and the old man was quite red in the face. _Don’t oversell it,_ Claude prayed to every entity he could as he steadied his grandfather. “I’m all right, I’m all right.”

Another pocket square so he could discreetly clean his face, Claude found Hubert watching him, expectant. “Regrouping. I was following a couple leads, a couple curious rumors.” _Not much to be found at the bottom of a wine glass._

Vestra’s eyes nearly glowed, and a greedy, feral look came over his face. “About Byleth Eisner?”

Claude froze. Perhaps even his ever-present smile slipped, but only for a moment. How dare this snake of a man even think about Teach, much less speak about their lost professor. _Now would have been a good time for a coughing fit._ But another thought as Hubert rearranged his own face to mask that flash of greed, clearly something Claude wasn’t meant to see; Adrestia hadn’t found anything either, even though they had an obvious interest in the matter. “Might be. Why, have you heard rumors, too? Perhaps we could trade.”

A sigh, and the man leaned back; he could get no more answers out of Hubert. “I’ve overstayed, I think. I’ll be taking my leave now.” His hunch was right; he felt like gloating.

“My steward Marcel can direct you toward where the bodies have been kept. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to rest.” They stood, Grandfather leaning heavily on Claude’s arm. “Good day, Marquis Vestra.”

They didn’t speak until they had reached the ducal apartment and Grandfather had been settled in bed, his breathing slightly labored. “You overdid it this week.”

“A nap and I’ll be all right.” He took Claude’s hand and patted it affectionately; his eyes, however, were alive and searched his grandson’s face for a curious expression. “Who is Byleth Eisner?”

He smiled and pulled the blankets a bit further up on the old man’s chest. “A professor who went missing.” _And a dear friend_. He kissed Grandfather’s temple. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you at supper.”

Quietly, he left the ducal apartments. A maid stood at the door in place of Marcel. “Bring a half decanter of red to the conference room, please.” The room was cold when he arrived, but Claude didn’t bother with the fire; when the servant brought him a crystal decanter filled with Ordelia merlot and a glass, she fussed over the hearth without a word. His eyes followed the troop positions on the table. There was no way an Imperial battalion got through both Fraldarius and Daphnel; Hubert must think him stupid and blind. 

He looked at Garreg Mach, studied it from every angle as he sipped his wine. The center of the world that was Fodlan, but strategically useless to the Empire at present. If they were to take a position there, it would be too difficult to get supplies or auxiliary troops there without being seen or attacked; if Leicester and the Kingdom came to an agreement to fight together it would leave them pinned on both sides. Most likely, it had been smashed to bits and then left to rot; a symbolic victory against the church, but meaningless in terms of territory won or lost.

Claude reached in the box of tokens, rooting around until his fingers found what he was looking for, and he pulled out one of the general’s tokens. There were others littered about; Edelgard and her battalions in Enbarr, Rodrigue Fraldarius in his keep, and what they assumed to be the situation in Fhirdiad with Dimitri in that capital. For Leicester, he hadn’t bothered, as he knew their troop movements by memory. Carefully, Claude set the token down on top of the mountains in the dip where the monastery lay, and with it, his hopes and dreams. _Teach._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I wasn't expecting to put Hubert in this story, but here we are.


	12. The Schemes of Holst Goneril

Gods, how he hated these conferences. Sure, Claude was always up for a little friendly debate, a little political posturing and intrigue, but the Roundtable tested his every nerve right down to the bone. Every point had to be debated, sometimes for an entire half hour, with no detail too petty to be ignored or set aside, and why did the sovereign duke’s chair have to be so _uncomfortable?_ His ass fell asleep every time.

The actors: Holst Goneril, Anatole Edmund, Achille Ordelia, and his absolute favorite, Renard Gloucester. The issue: whether or not they should be concerned that Count Rowe appeared to be allied with the Empire, thus giving Edelgard inroads to march on Fhirdiad. But first, the debate about if it could be shown that Arianrhod was being ignored, and if they had to go through the positions on the map one more time for Count Gloucester’s benefit, Claude might just starting throwing teapots himself. But at least it gave him a chance to stand as he moved the pieces based on Judith’s information. A frown. “I still don’t see it.”

A fist hit the table; Holst was always the first to lose patience. “Stop being willfully blind and perhaps you will. Explain how that battalion got on the road _behind_ the fortress if not for Rowe’s vassalage to the Empire?”

“How dare you, Holst.“ He’d be standing any second now.

“That’s Duke Goneril to you. I won’t be addressed like that from the Emperor’s favorite lapdog.“

Pretty sure that was actually Hubert, but that was an argument for another day. “Gentlemen, my lords,” Anatole cut in; despite himself, Claude had grown to rely on the margrave’s need to smooth over tensions. “Let’s set aside the question of if Rowe and Arianrhod are with the Empire or with the Kingdom, and assume that they are. The issue at hand is if we should be concerned at such a development in the field of battle?”

Claude sat down and wove his fingers together. “Regardless of whether or not I’m correct-“ _Which I am, you pompous prick,_ “-the field shows that Edelgard could threaten Fhirdiad. If it falls, she will still need to contend with Gautier and Fraldarius, especially if Prince Dimitri isn’t taken with the capital.”

“It will be a hard fight, Rodrigue is a stubborn one,” Achille murmured from his place beside Holst. “He’ll fight to the last man, and won’t surrender. Ever.”

Sounds like the crabapple didn’t fall far in Fraldarius; Claude hid a smile behind his hand as Renard spoke again. “Why is this even our problem? Why does it matter if the Faerghus and Adrestia tear each other to shreds? Seems like a waste of time for us to be here at the summons of the heir of the sovereign duke.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Margrave Edmund cleared his throat. “Holst, I believe you are correct in saying that Renard may be losing his eyesight.” He laughed; fake, but Claude would take it. “To be fair, Duke Riegan wears that ring like he was born with it on.”

He let the silence hold for a handful of heartbeats as Count Gloucester looked at his hands clasped on the table, and then Claude smiled; how he wanted to wiggle his fingers at the man and make the gold glitter. “To answer your question, it’s our problem because I, the sovereign duke, say it’s our problem. Do you honestly think that the Emperor would be satisfied with crushing Faerghus and leave Leicester to us to govern? I know Edelgard better than all of you, and I know she means to unite all of Fodlan under one banner.” He tapped the table. “An Imperial battalion attacked me not even two weeks ago.”

Another long silence, and then Achille cleared his throat. “So you’ve confirmed they were Imperials?”

He shrugged. “I had a very pleasant visit with the Minister of the Imperial Household who admitted that battalion had gotten ‘lost.’” Ordelia snorted. “I’ve confirmed with Judith that it is unlikely they came from the west, so that means they crossed Airmid somehow and came north.” He leaned on his hand and looked at Count Gloucester. “I’d be curious as to how they crossed your territory without a peep. They attacked us while we were escorting refugees.”

A snort, this time from Holst. “Almyran refugees.”

“There’s some Faerghans, too, and we get more every day.” Gloucester, to his credit, didn’t squirm. “One of the refugees died in the attack.”

“You’d best start your investigation with Acheron, Duke Riegan,” Gloucester said at last. “He controls Myrddin, after all.”

Claude smiled. “Oh, he’s been summoned to Derdriu for his account. But that doesn’t change the fact that somehow, an entire battalion of Imperial troops somehow showed up a day’s march from Derdriu and no one fucking noticed.” He stood up again and picked up tokens from the board. “This is what I want.” He moved two battalions from Gloucester territory and one from Riegan’s forces in the Locket and moved them the Myrddin. “No one gets over that bridge without my knowing.”

Holst snorted. “You would leave the Throat under-defended when our reports say Ali is winning? When did Riegan get so soft on the Almyrans? If we’re not careful, we’ll be fighting both in the south and the east, and we don’t have enough troops for both wars.” _Good thing Alai is my father._

Edmund cleared his throat. “I’ll bring a battalion to the Throat in compensation. The sovereign duke’s safety is paramount, especially if someone may want to try to drag us into a war with Edelgard prematurely. If Claude were to die, we would be forced to retaliate. We don’t want that, especially if we still haven’t been able to coordinate with Faerghus to present a united front.”

“So we’re agreed?” He nodded at Arianrhod. “Judith will keep us informed about the kingdom best she can, but we really can’t move until Faerghus treats with us. Unfortunately, Fraldarius is still holding out because no one knows where Dimitri is.” He smiled and tapped the table. “Well, tomorrow, then, gentlemen. There’s lunch in the banquet hall, but I have to check on Grandfather.”

They stood to leave, all except Holst. “Duke Riegan.”

“Duke Goneril.”

“When you’re done with Oswald, would you walk with me back to my townhouse?” There was no apparent harm in that, so he agreed. Interesting that Holst would decline lunch at the palace; he and Hercule were legendary in their appetites, but perhaps that meant there would be leftovers to sneak Grandfather.

The old man was awake and reading _Philosophies of Timocratic Rule_ on his favorite sofa, but he closed his book without marking his place and looked expectant. “Without a hitch. Gloucester’s still an ass.”

A laugh. “I wasn’t expecting Renard to be more polite to you, but at least he’s behaving.”

Claude nodded with a laugh of his own. “For now. I’m going for a walk with Holst, so I’ve got to go. Talk later?”

“I’ll see you at supper.” He returned to his book, flipping through pages to find his place. “You were right, this book is riveting.”

Holst waited, hands behind his back as he examined a landscape painting on the opposite wall. “How is Oswald?” They began to walk; Claude had to nearly jog to keep up with Holst’s long strides.

“Most days he’s fine. He’s been overexerting himself the last couple weeks, so he’s been politely told to keep to his rooms.” Their arguments were civil these days, mostly because the old man couldn’t shout his objections back, but that was a shade too private for this conversation.

A nod as they stepped out of the palace; it was a grey day in Derdriu, but doubtful it would rain. “It will be a tragic day for the Alliance when we lose Oswald. His experience and advice has been invaluable.”

Claude nodded his agreement. “He’s a good man and a great leader.” He tried not to shudder as the Goneril guard fell in step around them; if Holst wanted, he could have him run through without a second thought. _Perhaps I ought to get my own set of guards._

“From all accounts, he’s not nearly as great a leader as he was before Godfrey’s accident. Not that anyone can blame him for that.”

“Anyone but Gloucester.” The same man who caused his grandfather’s sorrow now complained about his lackluster leadership through it all; the grand irony.

They crossed a bridge over one of the canals; he knew boats in that canal were the most direct way to the market district. Holst stopped and gestured at his escort. “Go on, now.” One of the guards looked to protest until Holst shook his head. “You really think that Duke Claude is a threat to me? I know the way back.”

While they looked out over the water while Holst’s guard disappeared. Claude stood beside the duke, watching his face in profile; pink hair curled over his ears and peony eyes that matched his sister’s, but Holst was a great hulk of a man that favored Hercule Goneril, where Hilda clearly favored their mother in terms of facial structure. “Sorry about that, but ever since we heard about your attack, Father insisted I have a guard with me at all times.”

He shrugged. “No apology needed for speaking the truth. You could snap me in half if you wanted.” Claude leaned on the stone balustrade. “Is Hilda in town? I’d like to see her.” Perhaps if she was he could make some plans for later in the week.

“I told her she couldn’t come this time.” A muscle twitched in Holst’s jaw. “Just what are your intentions with my sister, Claude?”

Well, this is not what he expected. Not that he really thought about what Holst wanted when he asked for Claude to walk with him. “I, um, well.”

A sigh. “Look, I know about Hilda’s romantic inclinations. I’ve known for a long time, even if she thinks I don’t.” If he gripped the stonework any tighter, it might crumble under the general’s hands. “You were in my house with my servants. I thought you smarter than that.”

 _Oh, Goddess damn it all._ “Didn’t know they were listening at the door.” He turned and looked at Holst. “As for my intentions, that depends. If I decline the engagement, will you marry her off elsewhere, knowing what you know?”

He shrugged. “Marrying for love isn’t something I got to do, either.”

Everyone knew that, despite how it came about, Holst Goneril adored his wife to near distraction. “Then I suppose I would marry Hilda if that meant she was safe from someone who didn’t care what her feelings are on the matter.”

Holst’s eyes narrowed, but he continued to watch the traffic on the canal instead of looking at Claude. “Even if that meant you had no legitimate heir from your wife? Despite the rumors that will inevitably follow you?”

“Oh no, not rumors about me.” Claude smiled when Holst snorted. “Look, I hate to reduce this down to politics, but it keeps the others in check. If we show unity through my semi-real engagement to your sister, it’s assumed that Riegan and Goneril will ally on the same side of most matters.”

“You mean Gloucester will assume we’ll be allies in most things.”

“He is my biggest thorn. But with the Imperial issue, we can keep him check fairly easily with us and Ordelia.” The count would never budge on that issue, unless they were sure to win against Edelgard. “Let us keep up the fiction for awhile. That way, Hilda doesn’t have to get married, we have our alliance, and I don’t have to contend with marriage offers from every corner of the world while also trying to keep Leicester from capsizing.”

At last, Holst looked at him. “I’m going to ask a rude question.”

“Okay.”

“Do you prefer to sleep with men, is that really why?”

Claude snorted, and then he covered his mouth to laugh. Sure, he and Sylvain had once drunkenly fooled around after their weekly game of twenty squares, and then a few more times sober, but given half a glass of wine and the opportunity the Gautier heir would kiss anyone who let him. Gods, he’d even stolen a kiss from Leonie a couple times until she shoved him straight into the fishpond in front of Seteth. Holst didn’t even crack a smile, so he stifled his own mirth quickly. “No, I don’t have a preference. I’m not trying to use Hilda as a cover.” For that, at least.

“So it doesn’t run in the family?” His confusion must have been obvious, because Holst smirked at him. “You must have wondered why Godfrey never had children.”

To be honest, Claude never thought about it. “I don’t ask questions about my uncle.”

Duke Goneril considered this, and nodded. “Probably for the best. Renard’s biggest complaint with Oswald has always been his blind eye when it came to Godfrey. There’s some rivalry there from when they were kids I’m sure, but not all of his criticisms of your uncle were unfounded.” Then he patted Claude’s shoulder; it took everything he had to keep his knees from buckling from the force of it. “When you do break it off with my sister, I will have to be very angry with you.”

Claude shrugged. “I’ll play my part appropriately. Perhaps we can plan it to where you can get something out of Gloucester in exchange?” A gallant offer to swoop in and save Hilda from spinsterhood would definitely be Lorenz’s style.

“If Leicester survives the war, that is. I hope you’re twice as clever as everyone says, because all of this will be for nothing if you’re not.” A pause. “I do have one last question. The token at Garreg Mach.”

Of course Holst would be the one to notice it. “Just a rumor I heard, something I intend on following up shortly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a typo; Claude's father's name is thought to be Ali in Leicester at large. It was kind of a joke from the first one, as grandfather (the king of Almyra) would call all his grandchildren Ali or Fatimah because he forgot their real names.


	13. Garreg Mach Monastery

This was probably the dumbest thing he could have possibly done. _Risk big, win big._ Claude circled above the ruins of the monastery, checking it over and over again for any signs of activity. He’d come alone after the conference, the rest of it nothing more than droning arguments about steel imports and Edmund complaining about Derdriu’s customs inspectors. He’d even gone so far as to tell Grandfather he was going to the manor for a few days. Which was _technically_ true; Claude planned to take a week to check on his neighbors, he just took a westerly detour.

Satisfied that the place was deserted, his first order of business was to feed his mount; good thing the livestock still grazed outside the monastery walls, and the wyvern was more than happy to snatch a fat, unsuspecting ewe from the flock. It died instantly, thank the Goddess; it always made him feel a bit sick when the wyvern snatched dinner and it screamed in terror trapped in wyvern talons until they could land. He attended to his meal as his rider tethered him to a tree, crunching bones and flesh with equal relish. Claude drew in a shuddering breath at the sight, patted the animal’s flank, and turned around to wander around Garreg Mach Monastery, Failnaught slung casually over one shoulder.

Empty. He had to take care to avoid the rubble from broken walls as he walked down the familiar paths; familiar, but foreign now as he was the only human soul in the place. There were scorch marks on the arched pathway, the result of some misdirected spell, no doubt. Who fought here, he wondered. It had to be one of the knights; by the time the monastery proper was breached, the students had been forced to retreat under Hanneman and Manuela’s direction. _Teach and Rhea were already missing at that point._ But that was why he was here now, to look for clues.

Everywhere he looked, memories bloomed, now marred with evidence of war; the bench where he used to pretend to sleep on Hilda’s lap while she awkwardly flirted with Marianne was tipped over, the bushes that were the most popular spot to get handsy reduced to ashes, a table where they all gathered to watch Raphael and Caspar engage in a spectacular eating contest that ended in Bergliez being carried to the infirmary by his rival, that was shattered to splinters. The only thing that still stood was the table where Teach usually held tea parties, as if it was protected, a sacred spot in all this ruin. If he was more religious, Claude would have taken it as a sign.

His first objective: the vault. Doubtful there would be anything of value left, but it was as good a place as any. Next, he would try the cathedral and see if he could get into the Holy Masoleum. With Rhea gone, doubtful anyone could open it again, but Claude wasn’t about to let it go without trying.

The doors were shut tight, tall and imposing. How he’d wanted to go inside and look when he was a student; just what kind of treasures would the church keep in a vault? There were countless stories about holy weapons throughout Fodlan’s history, and Claude was certain there were more that he had yet to read about. He put his hand on the handle and gave it a tug, and yelped when he felt a surge of magic.

Oh, it didn’t hurt; still, it surprised him. He tried again, the same sensation, and an outline of the Crest of Cichol glowed on the door. _Didn’t know Seteth could use magic._ And old magic at that; Claude’s worst subject had been spellweaving, but even he could tell this was complex and ancient, something he doubted even Lysithea could grasp on first glance. Well, that was a bust.

Same with the Holy Masoleum; he wasn’t surprised to see the same mark glow on the doors when he tried to open them. He sighed, running his hands through his hair, wondering if the magic would weaken with time; probably not, knowing Seteth. Still, a question he tucked into the back of his mind to ask Lysithea next time they met.

He paused in the cathedral and looked at the sunlight pouring in from the gaping hole in the dome. Odd, he would have expected more of the glass to have been destroyed. Of all the buildings, this was the most damage he had seen; how many mages had been casting to blow that hole in the ceiling, he wondered. Perhaps the Empire had done it on purpose to send a message, or perhaps they had been trying to get into the Masoleum or Tomb again and were stopped by the Knights. 

Something streaked through the air, diving into the wyvern aviary in that corner of the monastery. A wyvern, seeming to be riderless. _Hope that’s not mine._ Still, he’d be cautious going forward in case his eyes had failed him and they were carrying human cargo. Perhaps he should have worn softer shoes to hide his footfalls.

Well, if he wasn’t going to get into anything on the ground floor, now would be as good a time as any to investigate the professors’ quarters for anything of use. Hanneman’s things could be interesting at least, and he could wander around the library without Seteth creeping up on him. The stairs were close enough, so it wasn’t too far out of his way before he took his leave of the ruin.

But as he approached the stairs, his heart sank at sight of the glimmer of magic hanging over the entrance, the Crest of Cethleann brighter than the rest. Claude reached out to touch it anyway, and drew back immediately with a hiss of pain. _Flayn, just who are you?_ Didn’t matter right now. He sighed, working his jaw back and forth as he thought. The terrace attached to Rhea’s room might be unprotected, but he could also hurtle to his death on the stone path below as his wyvern panicked from the pain if he was wrong.

Well, that was a bust. He was losing daylight already; best to take a break and gather his thoughts. He was getting hungry, anyway. His lunch was less appetizing than his wyvern’s; dried meat and a hard heel of bread from the loaf he’d purchased yesterday. Ah, well, he’d be home soon enough and he’d be eating like a duke again. _Where to look next?_ He wondered if the dorms suffered; there had been no time to take everything with him and perhaps he could bring some of his things home.

Plan in hand, he finished his meal and began to meander toward the dorms. _I really should have been more insistent on a room change._ He really had to walk all the way down this lane to get to the stairs and then all the way to the back of the hall to get to his room. If only he could have had a room next to Teach.

Claude stopped; Teach’s room. He looked; the door was shut, but would Seteth have thought to seal it off like the other rooms? It was just a bedroom, really. Well, no harm in looking, so he walked to the door and reached for the handle. _What if Teach is here, hiding?_ He lifted his hand and made a fist to rap on the wood. 

No response, nothing at all, just the sound and sensation of his knuckles on the wood. Now he just felt like a dumbass knocking on a door in a ruined and abandoned monastery as if Byleth Eisner would be on the other side of the door, waiting for him. He opened the door and stepped inside the room.

Same with the table, this was untouched, as if war had never come to Garreg Mach. Bed, desk, Teach’s personal bulletin board with notices for monastery activities; any student who wanted to put something up on that board had permission to do so, and so it was littered with more notices than the official boards around the monastery. 

He checked the desk; locked. He flipped through the lesson plan book; Teach’s handwriting was small but refined. A list of items was scribbled at the bottom, some of them scratched out, others with names beside them. Three left. “Glove-too small for Ferdinand, Edelgard.” “Training book-Felix suggested Dimitri.” “Jade piece-Lorenz says Claude.” _Ah hah._ Well, perhaps the trip wouldn’t be a total loss.

Except the dresser was also locked, and Claude grinned despite his chagrin; leave it to a mercenary to know better than to leave anything out in the open. Despite his best efforts, he’d never really gotten the knack for lockpicking, so that pebble looked to be a now permanent addition to his board. Well, two more things to do; if Teach’s room was relatively unmolested, then his room ought to be in similar shape, so he’d go there first. Second, he’d visit the aviary and check on that wyvern he saw swoop in.

Unlike the ground floor dorms, the second floor rooms showed signs of disarray. Claude’s heart sank as he walked down the corridor, looking at the mess of clothes, books, personal effects that littered the hall. _Ransacked or haste to leave?_ The second floor was exclusively for nobles, and he imagined quite a few of them had made sure not to leave anything of importance in their rooms before departing. That had been a quick thing for Claude, as he burned all the letters involving state affairs and kept the rest tucked in his journal.

At last, his room. The door was shut; for some reason, he found that important to do before fleeing. Claude swallowed, feeling more nervous about this than breaking into Teach’s room, and he opened the door.

Everything was as he left it, right down to the wilting flowers in a vase, a gift from Ignatz if he remembered it right. Books littered the place, including the bed. _I used to sleep like that._ How many times had he rolled off the bed due to the narrow scrap of bed he allowed himself? Enough that Felix stopped asking what that noise was when he hit the floor. At least at home the bed allowed for both his stacks of books and his body.

His eyes fell on his trunk, still locked with his cipher key. Everything important would be in that trunk; questionable books, presents he hadn’t been able to stuff in his pockets before leaving, things of that nature. _Secrets_. If only he had another wyvern; the old guy would hardly be fit to carry both a rider and a trunk. Time to make a visit to the aviary.

Claude walked slow, alert for any noise that might indicate he wasn’t alone in the ruins. He knew the way to the aviary better than most, nestled behind the cathedral, opposite the training grounds. These stairs were unprotected by magic; guess no one cared if someone stole some worn-out wyvern tack. Just before he cleared the last set of stairs, he pulled Failnaught from his shoulder and nocked an arrow.

It wasn’t his wyvern, that he could tell from a glance; he knew this girl, one of the younger wyverns from Garreg Mach’s aviary. Had she taken flight when the fighting started? No tack, no saddle, and she wasn’t tethered. _No rider, then_. “Hey, girl.” What was her name? Something unusual, a flower. “Tulip.”

A trill greeted him, and he slung the bow back over his shoulder as she walked over to him, ungainly on her clawed feet and crunching decaying sheep corpses in her wake. She nuzzled his stomach, trilling the whole time, and he laughed as he avoided her antlers. “Hey now, you’ve been here alone this whole time? Looks like you’ve made out all right, at least.” Claude realized he was speaking Almyran to her; it just felt right. Smaller than the one he’d stolen the first time, but fierce in a fight. He considered it as he rubbed her snout. With two wyverns, he could bring a lot more back to the manor, and the old guy was docile enough to follow without a rider. Yes, he could make it work.

Thank the Goddess there were spares in the storehouse still, and Claude chose the least battered of the saddles and tack. Tulip let him fasten it without fuss; even after two months alone and she was still well-trained enough to let him do this. For a Fodlander, Seteth really knew how to train wyverns.

Oh, _this_ was what he loved about flying. She was small and agile, responsive to his commands, and they raced through the air, his cheeks flushed from the exhilaration well before they landed in the meadow where the other wyvern lay sleeping, a half-eaten sheep beside him. He didn’t even crack an eyelid when they landed. He tethered her as well, watching with a laugh as she casually stole the carcass and began to eat. “I suppose I ought to tend to my own stomach, as well.” There were rabbit traps back at the monastery, perhaps he could catch himself something fat to skin and roast. Anything other than a strip of dried beef and stale bread.

The sun set low by the time he had caught a rabbit and skinned it for roasting over his small fire. The wyverns slept, and Claude considered his options as he watched his supper cook. Even he had to admit it was a long shot to find anything of use in the monastery, but even he was surprised by the level of caution taken with the monastery. _If they were so worried, why haven’t the Knights come back?_ The unknowns made him itch, and he hated leaving here with more questions than when he came.

The wind picked up, causing him to shiver. He couldn’t sleep out here, but the thought of clearing off his bed exhausting. Claude stood, patted both wyverns, and wandered back into the monastery to pick a bed to sleep in; he knew where his feet would take him and for the second time today, he entered Teach’s room. The bed neatly made, as if no one had ever slept in it.

Warm, dark, safe. Claude felt the pull of sleep almost before he had been able to bury deep into the blankets, and he closed his eyes to submit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seteth: *hangs a polite "No Trespassing" sign*  
> Flayn: *hangs some electrified barbed wire*


	14. Born Under the Wanderer's Star

This was definitely not how he left the manor almost a month ago. As Claude approached for landing with the old wyvern obediently following with his trunk, he could see a decided lack of men among those working in the fields they used for planting; instead he spied more than a few Almyran women, obvious by their brightly colored dresses. When he landed beside the stables, the hands that came out to help him with the tack and care of the wyverns were a mix of the older refugee children. They chattered in a mix of languages and hand gestures; they had progressed well despite his absence. “Go on, we’ve got this,” one of the pluckier children said; the same girl who said she knew how to treat scale rot.

The manor was packed, the elderly and new mothers crowded in sitting rooms, feeding babies, talking, working at needlepoint or other sewing projects. Still more were cleaning, tending fires, bringing meals and tea to the others. He had given Aaron direction to do just that, but even he was surprised at how many people could fit in his house. _But where are the regular servants?_

At least Enora was still there and she slid a plate in front of him as he settled in a chair; roasted elk, spiced in a way that reminded him of desert sunsets. “Aaron’s in his office, I told him you arrived.” Lips pursed, he could tell she wasn’t impressed that the steward thought the return of his lord not important enough to greet him at the door, but Claude wasn’t offended. Instead he took his plate with a word of thanks and stood up to wander his way to the back of the manor where the steward’s offices lay.

He tapped on the open door as a courtesy, and then walked inside. The room was sparse, nothing more than a desk and two chairs, the top of said desk bare other than pen and ink and the ledger book; all other work was kept in locked drawers. _A tidy office for a tidy man._ Aaron was hunched over the book, proofing columns, and Claude noted the traces of a fading bruise across the steward’s nose. He pulled the second chair up to the desk and sat down. “How poor am I?”

“Less than you would expect. You still haven’t spent half of your personal allowance for the month.” Tick marks on each column compared to stacks of receipts; clearly he had made serious headway into merging the manor and the duchy books at large while Claude was gone.

“You set too much aside.” He ate in the comfortable silence while Aaron worked. “I see we’ve had some staff changes.”

A grunt. “I had to let them go. There were objections to having Almyrans in the house.” The flip of the page.

 _If they only knew._ He cut into his elk. “Objections that broke your nose?”

He touched it, most likely unconsciously. “That was the stable master. Some of the children wanted to help, and well, some unkind words were said.” The pen scratched a bit harder as he marked his columns. “I swung first.”

It had to be some words for Aaron to lose his temper; Claude almost didn’t want to know. “Did you write letters of recommendation?”

“Should I have?”

A laugh. “No, of course not.” There was a knock on the door, and Fatimah entered with a tray. “Oh, hello.”

Aaron looked up at last, and shut his books so she could put the tray on the desk. “Eat,” Fatimah said, pointing. Aaron nodded, and she left again with only a wave of her hand in Claude’s direction, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“She does this every day, ever since I fired Marcus,” Aaron said, looking bemused as he poured tea. “She barely speaks Fodlandic, so I don’t know how to tell her to stop fussing.” Claude snorted, and his steward looked at him, confusion still stamped on his face. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” He would let Aaron figure it out on his own that he had an admirer; probably more than one, if he knew anything about Almyran women. “Perhaps I should teach her more Fodlandic, or I could teach you some Almyran. Or both.” 

“It would be appreciated by everyone, I’m sure.” That was Aaron’s way of saying he agreed, so Claude would take it.

* * *

Summer was a blur; Claude felt hardly a day went by when his feet were always fully on the ground. Manor to Derdriu and back again; at least he was filling out with all the exercise. Time for another order of suits from the Derdriu tailor, and more comfortable riding gear made lovingly by his new half-dozen Almyran grandmothers with leather they tanned themselves. Tulip never seemed to run out of energy; the other wyvern that the children had inexplicably dubbed Daisy spent his days dozing in Claude’s favorite napping spot. _Lucky bastard._

They split the work well enough; Aaron handled orders for more supplies and laborers to build shelters and Claude escorted more refugees as they came to Derdriu. More than once Claude came to the manor and found a sofa made up for him to sleep on in the solar, being the only room kept as a sanctuary for the master of the house; there were a lot of pregnant women and the master bedroom had been appropriated as the birthing room under Enora’s careful direction. To tell the truth, she was spending more time as apothecary and midwife than cook, replaced by Fatimah in that role with minimal complaints on either side; as much as he adored Enora’s food, he enjoyed the increasingly Almyran meals coming from the kitchen. “Never thought I would be birthing so many babes at my age,” Enora commented as Claude and Aaron carried a woman to bed; her legs had given out from the pain of childbirth.

“You could always retire, I’ll give you a good living.” He tried not to wince as the woman cried out.

“Hush you, boy. What would you all do without me?”

A cheer went up the day several carts with looms and supplies for weaving arrived at the manor in midsummer. By then half the buildings planned had been erected and most refugees had been housed in the large barracks they constructed, and so the looms were set up in each common room. The clacking of shuttles became a soothing rhythm whenever he visited the barracks, and it never seemed to be the same face working the loom. By autumn, they would have several bolts of fresh fabric for use for sewing in the winter.

Evenings in the manor, Claude had an audience with supper. Between bites, he kept up his language lessons to a gaggle of children eating their own meals on the veranda with him. They would take turns calling out words, and he would repeat in Fodlandic and Almyran. They knew better than to ask him to curse; those they picked up from their parents, anyway. After supper and the children were put to bed, the veranda would be taken over by the adults chattering and joking over cups of ale and mead. By then, he was content and sleepy enough to watch, sipping on his wine and keeping the smile off his face as he watched Aaron contend with a rotating bevy of admirers, Fatimah not the least of them. During the Garland Moon, the steward nearly drowned in roses.

His visits to Derdriu were less cheerful. Grandfather always perked up as the weather warmed, but even in the brightest summer days the old man could hardly make it from bed to the sitting room before his breathing became deeply labored and sweat dampened his forehead with the effort. And yet, he persisted, even if his hands trembled holding a book in his struggle to hold even that slight weight. Lunch was taken in that sitting room with his grandfather to talk over Claude’s letters and argue politics. 

Derdriu meant work these days; collecting new refugees to travel to the monastery, meeting with just about every petty lord and merchant in Riegan territory to settle disputes and hear petitions, writing letters and coordinating the rest of the Alliance. After morning training, he locked himself in the office that had once been Grandfather’s, reading until he felt blind; and yet, he never reached the bottom of his pile of work.

“You spend too much time with me when you’re here,” Grandfather murmured one night as they played twenty squares, the old man propped up at the head of his bed. “Not that I wish our visits to stop.”

Claude smiled and moved a piece. “Visiting with you helps me work. Who else can I talk to about all this madness?” Grandfather didn’t reply, and they played in silence for several minutes; he watched the old man frown through the end of the game; another loss for the younger von Riegan. “What’s really on your mind?”

Grandfather lay back against the pillows with a sigh. “Marcel told me you’ve been sleeping in the office. Keeping a change of clothes in there, even.” He gave him a stern look, a rare flash of parental disapproval. “You’ll burn out if you continue like this.”

“All the more reason to come see my grandfather as often as I can get away from it.” A snort from the old man. “Are you really that concerned about me becoming sloppy in my work?”

“Yes.” He nodded at the board. “You could have taken the lead and won at least three different times and failed.” Grandfather’s hand reached, trembling as it always did these days, and it touched Claude’s forearm where the Crest they shared manifested. “I’ve told you before, this can’t cure all.”

Hands clasped together, Claude nodded. “Fine, tomorrow I’ll take a break. Would you feel up to taking a carriage ride into town with me?”

* * *

They couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. Blue cloudless skies, a soft breeze briny and cool from the ocean, the sun just warm enough to offset the chill; Derdriu had never looked finer. Grandfather clung to his hand as the carriage trotted through the streets, and frequently he called for them to stop so he could look out over the city, _his_ city. The canals in particular he liked to gaze over, a fond smile on his lips. “Copper for your thoughts,” Claude said after the second stop to admire the view.

“I used to take the canals all the time with your grandmother, Annemarie. We would just take a boat, ride it to the end of the line, and then walk to another station to take another all afternoon when we were courting.” He chuckled. “One time, your mother fell into a canal.”

Claude laughed. “I can see it. To this day, she can’t sit still for a moment.”

A pat on their clasped hands. “Tell Jean to move on, please.”

They rode all the way to the docks to see the ocean and the ships bobbing along the waves. Grandfather directed them a bit away from the harbor proper to a rocky bit of coast visible from town. “Help me, I want to show you something.”

They walked to the shoreline with their feet sinking into the damp sand, the old man’s weight negligible as he leaned on his grandson for support. Grandfather scanned the docks with his hand shading his eyes. “Look there, my boy.”

He couldn’t keep himself from grinning like a fool when he saw what his grandfather wanted him to see; sleek animals dove in and out of the water onto rocks under the docks, swimming with an envious elegance through the water. “Harbor seals. They’re lovely, aren’t they?” He looked at the old man and found another wistful look on his face. “I wish I could have taken you here when you were a child.”

So many years stolen from them due to ignorance and prejudice; not even Claude’s parents were immune in that assessment. _Or Grandfather._ He looped his arm through the old man’s so they could walk back. “I wish I could show you things I love, too.” The winding streets of the Almyran capital, the deserts and oases and stubby grasslands. Marmoulak. Nader’s fortress. The way his parents still adored each other, even after all this time.

“I know.” A kiss on his temple, and slowly they made their way through the sand to the waiting carriage.

Lunch was taken in a private room at a restaurant that Grandfather insisted on, and the old man ordered everything without input from his grandson. “Trust me.” Wine poured for the both of them, and Grandfather winked at Claude’s raised eyebrow. “Just the one.” He sipped, eyes closed with a sigh.

They talked about everything but politics; Grandfather told him stories about his mother, his uncle, the old man himself, all the Alliance lords and their parents, and in return, Claude told him about his cousins, the students and professors at Garreg Mach, Farah and Fatimah and Gigi. They talked until they were hoarse, until their meals were cold and the wine drank. True to his word, the old man nursed that glass throughout the meal; Claude finished the bottle. 

He was full and sleepy; Grandfather seemed to be in the same state, his smile just a bit befuddled. “We should go back before it becomes gossip that the von Riegans fell asleep in the middle of a restaurant.”

Grandfather nodded. “Not that I give two figs about gossip about me at this point.” He groaned as Claude helped him to his feet.

They were both dozing by the time they reached the palace courtyard, leaning on each other with droopy eyelids. Claude yawned and climbed out first as Marcel came down the steps to assist with bringing Grandfather inside. It was slow going to the ducal apartments, but they made it without too much issue. Claude waited in the bedroom while Marcel assisted with dressing the former duke. “Thank you,” he murmured as they settled the old man into bed, and with a bow, the attendant disappeared.

Grandfather patted his hand, an affectionate smile on his face. “That was the most wonderful day I’ve had in a long time, even if it means I won’t leave this bed for the rest of the week.”

“Of course.” He smiled, feeling more than a bit smug. Grandfather instantly looked suspicious. “So, you had a good birthday?”

A frown deepened the lines on his face, all traces of that dreamy, contented smile gone. “That’s not today.” Claude nodded, near laughing. “I haven’t lost track of that much time, have I?”

“I’m scared to ask what day you think it is. Please don’t tell me you think we’re still in Garland.” Now he did laugh as the old man scowled. “I finally got you.”

“This is what retirement does to you, I suppose.” At last, he smiled, even if it was a bit rueful. “Thank you, my dearest Claude. You’ve been a light in these last years of mine.” He kissed the back of Claude’s hand and patted it again, as if he hadn’t already made his grandson blush and blink away tears. “I only have one regret.”

“And what’s what?” Those words came out much more strained than he expected or wanted.

Grandfather cleared his throat. “I didn’t get you anything.”

He squeezed the old man’s hand. “You gave me an entire duchy, I think I’m okay on gifts.” He stood and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Happy birthday, Grandfather.”

A smile and a whisper. “Happy birthday, my dear Khalid.” _Yes, this is enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it incredibly self-indulgent to make Claude and Oswald share a birthday? Yes. Do I care? No.


	15. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter title sucks, but I don't really have a better one.
> 
> Content warning: violence against leeches.

The turn of the seasons forced Claude to plant his feet firmly in one place instead of splitting his time between the manor and Derdriu, and the palace became his semi-permanent home while Aaron stayed in the manor overseeing their burgeoning village; he hated being without his steward, but the icy sleet pouring down made travel difficult at best. It was also killing Oswald von Riegan.

Life changed, and his days revolved around Grandfather’s care; Claude took breakfast and letters in his bedroom listening to the old man wheeze in his sleep. He used the chess board as a desk on his lap, writing replies and pulling up the blankets whenever they slipped from the old man’s shoulders even a little. Solid food was impossible; even a taste of apricot jam had him hacking and coughing for hours, a basket of soiled handkerchiefs at his bedside in the aftermath. It was tea and broth, and he had to coax him to swallow each painful mouthful. He insisted on waiting until the old man woke to feed him personally; he knew Grandfather would fuss too much if any of the servants tried to bully him into another spoonful or one last sip of tea.

Thank the Goddess for the Marcel Bonhomme. He would have never imagined that the man who once forced him into Godfrey’s ill-fitting suits and insisted his hair be cut so short it couldn’t curl could be such a staunch ally, but in the last months of his grandfather’s life it was Marcel’s firm grip on the palace staff and his decades of experience managing the place that allowed Claude to take care of his grandfather with such attentiveness. Appointments with Duke Claude started after the old man woke and finished his broth and tea; Marcel eventually blocked morning meetings unless it was Holst or Judith. 

They bonded over one very important point; the leeching had to come to an end. It was an unspoken agreement one afternoon with raised eyebrows and a shake of Claude’s head as he took tea and lunch in Grandfather’s sitting room when the doctor Etienne arrived with a basin on a cart for the bloodletting. The bedroom door shut; Marcel took his time pouring tea, and followed the doctor into the bedroom. The sound of shattering pottery, raised voices, and Etienne stormed out shouting curses at Marcel.

The bell rang, and Claude hesitated a moment before he complied. Grandfather was quite red in the face, gesturing wildly, Marcel calmly picking leeches and pieces of the basin out of the rug; the leeches he flung into the fire with a hiss and a pop after each flick. _That rug’s probably another lost cause._ “Yes, Grandfather?”

A wave to come closer, and he complied. “Did you tell Marcel to do that?” Even though he could only manage a thin whisper, he could hear the anger laced in it.

“Me? I’m wounded.” Innocent eyes; Grandfather looked suspicious. “Like Marcel would ever listen to anything I have to say.”

“I’m not his manservant, I have no obligation to follow his orders.” Flick, pop, hiss, this one perhaps a bit more violent than necessary. “Even if he is Duke Riegan now.”

“Exactly. He still brings me rose petal tea or worse, that awful bergamot stuff.” Claude shrugged and tucked his grandfather into bed. “Don’t overexert yourself fussing. I’ll make sure to apologize to Etienne.”

He caught the doctor fuming outside the ducal apartments, starting to talk before Claude had even shut the door. “Absolutely shameful behavior, your Grace, I really must protest Marcel’s actions-“

Claude held up a hand. “He’s just protective of the Riegan family and my grandfather in particular, you understand I’m sure. Marcel is the consummate gentleman’s attendant.”

Etienne sighed. “I only bring the finest medicines and the most up to date techniques for his Grace’s care. It doesn’t come cheap, I’ll have you know.”

_So, compensation would make this go away._ “Marcel!” The door opened a moment later. “Would you please give the good doctor enough to cover the price of ten leeches and his basin? Send the receipt to Aaron, we can take it out of my budget.” What was the going rate for a leech, he wondered. “Excuse me, I have matters to attend.”

The next morning when his breakfast was brought to Grandfather’s bedroom, Claude smelled smoky pine as Marcel poured. “Thank you, that will be all.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

* * *

In the depths of winter, Claude had a trio of unexpected visitors. They arrived midafternoon as he sat in the conference room, studying the map; Grandfather napped after lunch, and he used that time to work on things that required him to be away from the old man’s sick bed. Marcel entered with a knock and a bow. “Pardon, but you’ve some visitors from Faerghus. They won’t give me their names, but said you would know them.”

“Describe them.” He paused in his pacing to listen.

“There’s a short dark-haired man, and tall redhead, and a blonde woman, all about your age.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did the redhead make some smart comment about keeping identities hidden, and when he said it, did the dark haired one scowl and call him an idiot?”

“Near enough, yes.”

Claude considered a moment; just what were those three doing in Derdriu, of all places? “Put them in the nice sitting room and bring them refreshments. The good ones, the lady likes to eat.”

He joined them after an acceptable amount of time to make them think he was busy with something that couldn’t be put off; he was almost done with his examination of the field of battle. Sylvain in full cavalry plate, Ingrid in white leathers, Felix in Faerghus blue. _Wonder how much was that his choice or Rodrigue’s?_ “Long time, no see. Welcome to Derdriu.” Marcel had ordered a decent spread, and he helped himself to tea and cake.

Felix scowled. “We asked to see Duke Riegan.”

Ingrid sighed. “Felix, please. It’s good to see you again, Claude.” 

He nodded. “And you all. As for my grandfather, he’s not available, so you’ll have to settle for me. Sorry.” Claude grinned, hoping he looked as charming enough to get what he wanted even if he wasn’t quite sure what that was yet. “What business do you have with Duke Riegan?”

Ingrid looked at the other two, and sighed again when Sylvain shrugged at her. “We were hoping to ask if you heard anything about his Highness.” A hesitation; Claude raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea so she would continue. “We thought perhaps Lady Judith had heard anything from Fhirdiad.”

“Why ask me? Galatea and Daphnel are the same family line.”

Ingrid grimaced. “My father tried that. His letter came back in shreds.” Claude bit his lip; Judith could be a shade too blunt at times. “No one has heard anything out of Fhridiad in weeks, and we can’t even be sure Dimitri is there.”

He leaned back, considering. “Not even Rodrigue Fraldarius-“

Another scowl from Felix. “No, not even my damned father has heard or seen anything. It’s like the boar just vanished.”

He had always wondered about that moniker; at least, he did until Edelgard’s double cross stripped Dimitri of his princely veneer and revealed the deep gouges of his soul. _What would it take to strip me, I wonder._ “What makes you think we’ve heard anything if you haven’t?” He paused. “Tell me about Arianrhod.” 

There was no mistaking the grimace on Sylvain’s face; even Felix’s jaw twitched. Even if they denied it, their faces screamed the truth. “Count Rowe-“

“Ingrid,” Sylvain said with a shake of his head. Claude laced his fingers together and watched the Gautier heir; they played chess enough that he knew how to make him squirm. If this didn’t work, well, there was a wine cellar and Claude wasn’t above tactical kissing. “Look, Rodrigue won’t ally with Leicester without his Highness.”

“It’s not a guarantee that Dimitri has enough presence of mind to enter into an alliance with us,” Claude replied, which earned him a barking laugh from Felix. 

Ingrid shot Felix a glare before looking at Claude again. “His Highness respects you, Claude, he would be willing to listen.” He blinked, surprised; he and Dimitri had talked a few times, but he never could have thought that the prince liked him all that much.

Perhaps that was what convinced him. “We haven’t heard anything. Not even Judith’s mice have found a crack wide enough to get into Fhirdiad.”

“The capital’s stitched up tighter than a diva’s corset,” Sylvain muttered; not quietly enough, and Ingrid slapped the back of his head with practiced ease. “Ow. I hadn’t even gotten to the dirty part.”

“Don’t even think about it, either.”

He wondered if Rodrigue was as scowly as his son, or if that was a distinctly Felix trait. “So Claude von Riegan is just going to sit in his fancy palace and watch Faerghus and Adrestia tear each other to pieces? I never took you for a coward.” 

Ingrid looked about ready to slap Felix, too; lucky him he was out of reach. “And where would your refugees go if the Leicester Alliance was also in open war against Edelgard? I’ve got about a couple thousand refugees in Riegan territory, and right now all you’re doing is staring at each other. What happens when Edelgard sieges Fhirdiad in earnest, or comes after Fraldarius to break the line? Would your refugees be safe in Sreng?” Silence; Claude leaned back in his chair. “I would have innocents of my own to contend with if Leicester goes to war.” _And my own Count Rowes. Thanks, Gloucester._

Sylvain was running a hand through his hair. “We always knew it was a long shot.” Then he smiled. “What’s a good place to get something to eat? I’ve always wanted to eat at one of those fancy restaurants Derdriu is famous for.”

Claude smiled at the way Ingrid’s eyes lit up. “The steward Marcel can provide you recommendations. Do you need rooms? I’m sure we can prepare beds by the time you return from supper.”

“You won’t join us?” Even now, Sylvain would flirt with anyone who looked at him for more than half a moment.

He considered it. “My grandfather and I usually have supper together. Let me check on him.”

Grandfather laughed when Claude took his hand and asked if he would be all right by himself. “Of course it is. You can’t always be taking care of me and running the Alliance.”

“Promise me you’ll behave and listen to Marcel.” Claude laughed when the old man scowled. He kissed his grandfather’s forehead. “Wish me luck.” _Hope I don’t end up in bed with Sylvain._

Marcel found them a very fine restaurant on the water that served mostly fish; small sacrifices. “The scenery is beautiful. I can see why Derdriu is considered a romantic city,” Ingrid said as she gazed out over the harbor. “Galatea isn’t nearly as pretty.”

“Anything is better than what I’ve been looking at the last few months,” Sylvain commented, already on his second glass; Claude gestured for another bottle of wine to be brought.

“Where have you been, anyway? I sent a messenger to Gautier, but the letter came back without being opened,” Felix said.

A grunt from Sylvain. “The Sreng border. Father and I had a disagreement, and next thing I know I’m on a ‘scouting mission’ in the middle of damned blizzard. I’ve seen nothing but snow and rocks and Srengi villagers since the end of Wyvern.”

Ingrid’s head snapped around to stare at the Gautier heir. “Who’s daughter did you try to seduce this time?” Even Claude felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at her tone.

The redhead held up his hands, pleading. “No one, I swear on my honor as a Gautier. Not that there’s much there, but still.” He picked up his glass and swirled the liquid, looking surprisingly serious. “I talked to his Highness before the invasion. I’m sure you all did, or heard the things he was saying. All I suggested was that perhaps we shouldn’t put all our strategy into finding his Highness because if we do, there’s no guarantee that he’ll be, um.”

“Sane enough to run the kingdom?” Felix snorted. “I got the same from my father when I said the boar had lost his mind.”

“He’s the last Blaiddyd. What choice do we have?” Ingrid shook her head. “The best we can do is hope his Highness marries early and the nobles push for a regency under Rufus again.”

This wasn’t his conversation, this hashing out Faerghus politics had no bearing on Claude’s situation. None of it mattered to Leicester unless they could form an alliance with whoever had the power of the throne in hand, be they mad Dimitri or some puppet regent. “Pardon me,” he said and stood up to make for the water closet. As soon as they were deep in their conversation and cups again, he slipped out of the restaurant with instructions at the door to send the check to Marcel for payment later.

Claude wandered the streets of Derdriu, carriage left behind for the Faerghans to take back to the palace; He knew the city well enough to find his way on his own now. The sun set over the harbor, turning the water a rosy color as he walked; a romantic city for someone like Ingrid, but it had always been a city of illusions for him. Here, he donned the name and title of Claude von Riegan, a fantastical man who rarely reflected the boy Khalid who wore that mask. Idle, complacent, always with a scheme up his sleeve and more secrets behind his smile than there were stars in the sky.

_Should’ve just stayed with Grandfather._ He might not be able to spill out all his thoughts and daydreams to the old man, but at least he could breathe a little easier around him, wrapped up inside their familial intimacy. He stopped to look over the canals Grandfather loved so much. This was a city fit for a duke, but Claude didn’t feel much like one. Never really felt like a prince, either, not with all the teasing and fighting he had with all his cousins, all the disrespect he endured by just about anyone who felt like taking their frustration out on the least important prince.

_Boo hoo, poor little misunderstood Khalid._ Claude shook his head at himself. Pity parties didn’t suit him; he tried that once when he first came to Fodlan, to curl himself up into a knot and resign himself to being mistreated no matter which side of the border he lived on. It had been Grandfather to bring him out of that funk; no, Grandfather only gave him the perspective he needed to come out of it himself.

His mind wandered to Teach; how much he had wanted to tell his secrets to that stoic face. _Teach wouldn’t care about my secrets._ It had taken him some time to realize that fact; even Dimitri had his opinions about Claude, his judgements, but Byleth Eisner never judged anyone for anything but the content of their actions and if they acted for good or for ill.

Claude tilted his head back to catch the first twinkling of stars. It was a big wide world, and Byleth could be anywhere in it. Even Alymra, or Sreng, or Brigid. Or dead in a ravine outside Garreg Mach. “Where are you, Teach?”

No answer. He sighed and kicked at the barrister in a useless gesture. _Shouldn’t have left the restaurant._ He was hungry, and the air, already chilly when they left the palace, was rapidly descending into frigid. Well, nothing better than a walk to warm up, and he set his feet pointing east to the palace to go home.


	16. A Difficult Letter to Write

It was the third day of the Great Tree Moon, and Claude had been staring at the map too long. His head buzzed, vision blurred, he was vaguely aware of an ache in his elbow as he propped his head against his hand, staring. _What is it all for?_ He was vaguely aware that he hadn’t eaten much, but still the thoughts wouldn’t stop rolling around in his head, creating a dull roar between his ears. Claude wanted to sweep the tokens from the map in a grand gesture, curse and stomp and scream until he felt a little more alive; but he knew, rationally, he would just have to set the pieces back up and order any new ones that broke in his rage. Once the initial outburst had settled, he would just feel even more empty.

The door opened. “Your Grace,” Marcel said from the entrance. “Would you like supper here or in your rooms?”

It seemed like an eternity before he realized he ought to respond. “How did he react, Marcel?” He looked over at the steward; nothing showed on his face. “What did my grandfather do when he found out Godfrey died?”

An impertinent question, he knew; Marcel’s spine stiffened. “It’s not wise to speak ill of the dead. But, for all his good qualities, his Grace did have a temper.” He paused. “That’s not to say that you ought to be the same, your Grace. We all grieve differently.”

Claude considered that. “In a way, I’m glad he made it to the new year.” The stubborn old man. He stood up. “In my rooms, and after I need to write letters, don’t I?”

Marcel inclined his head. “They’ve been written, they just need your signature and seal, and we can send for the other lords.” Claude nodded his agreement; despite his private sorrow, the world still needed to mark the passing of Oswald von Riegan.

* * *

There was one letter that the staff couldn’t prepare for him, and in the scant days leading up to the funeral, Claude agonized over it. “Mom, I hope you're well. How are Papa and Nader and Hamza?" Next line. "I wish this was a happy letter, but I'm writing to tell you that Grandfather has passed." Claude paused with his pen hovering over the page. Just what did he want to say? _He died well_ ; a pleasant lie. He bit his lip remembering those last moments as Claude held Grandfather's hand, head on the coverlet beside the old man while he gasped his last. A fighter to the end, a true Riegan; _that_ wouldn't be put in the letter, either. 

_His last words were dedicated to his family._ That weak voice rasped in his memory, barely loud enough for Claude to hear. Mom had been first. "Tiana, I miss you so." A shuddering breath; he squeezed the old man's hand. "Godfrey, Annemarie, I hope to see you soon." A squeeze back. "At least Riegan lives on." And then he died, and Claude had been removed from the room while they began preparations to move the body.

Ink dripped, blotting the last word. _Damn._ He crumpled up the page and pitched it in the bin with its fellows; a handful of false starts on this letter half-filled the waste bin beside his desk. Claude set his pen on the stand and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Better to hear it from him than gossip or reports, but how could he convey such an event in ink and paper? If only he could see her to tell her in person.

Claude stood and walked to the window; below, Derdriu continued on, working, laughing, playing, fighting. People fell in and out of love in equal measure, families shared meals, soldiers practiced their formations, honing their skills, all against the backdrop of the Empire looming at Leicester's doorstep. Tomorrow there would be a funeral, and the lords of Leicester would lay a sovereign duke to rest.

He looked back at his desk with a sigh; he had hoped to finish the letter and have it winging its way east by today, but that seemed impossible now. "Aaron!" His steward had come back for the funeral, thank the Goddess for that. "Bring me a half decanter of wine. White," he added after a moment's pause. It wasn't too early to start, and perhaps it was just what he needed to figure out what to say to his mother.

While he waited, he gathered up the starts of his letter and began to feed them into the fire. Each flared, burning hotter than the wood. Aaron returned with the wine, and handed him a chilled glass. "Thank you." He saw the man hesitate. "Is there something?"

He cleared his throat. "The ducal apartment is ready for you to move into at your leisure. Should we begin moving your things?"

Claude shook his head. "After the other lords have left, there's too much to do until then."

"Very good." Aaron reached in a pocket and held out a key; he took it. "For the Duke's bedside table. Marcel insisted no one else clean it out but you."

"Thank you. That's all for now." The door shut, Claude went back to looking out the window, sipping his wine. In his other hand, he fiddled with the key, pressing teeth into the pads of his fingers, warming the metal as he closed his fist around it. _Grandfather._

He finished the first glass, poured another, and wandered through his apartment, into the bedroom, through the secret passage between his and the ducal apartments. _My new rooms._ The thought made him shudder a bit; how many dukes had died on that bed, under the canopy of velvet drapes? Would he share the same fate; old, bitter, full of regrets and lost dreams, he wondered.

The bedside table was a sturdy thing, carved with a delicate flower motif; despite all his strength of character and the resilience of mind that allowed him to helm the Leicester Alliance for over a half-century, his grandfather had been a gentle man at heart. He slid the key in the lock and turned it.

Letters in stacks, tied with yellow ribbons, a woman's wedding ring, a pair of miniature paintings of children with white blonde hair, the boy's curled into tight ringlets. He picked them up. No doubt; his mother Tiana was the young girl, her green eyes defiant even at that age. The other must be his uncle. He set them aside on top of the table.

One stack of letters was old, and he glanced at them and set them aside, appearing to be letters between his grandparents; some were more well-read than others with worn creases. Letters from Godfrey and himself also were set aside; perhaps he'd read them all later.

The last stack. He knew that handwriting, the bold strokes of an Almyran pen. _Mom._ Claude turned the stack over to untie the ribbon, surprised to see a letter with an unbroken seal under the knot. He turned it over to see his grandfather's handwriting. "My Dearest Tiana.” Several pages thick, he touched the seal. When had he written this letter to her? Years in the making, or something more recent? He untied the ribbon and tucked the letter inside his jacket; after the funeral he would figure out how to get it to his mother.

He opened the oldest letter. “Father,” she began. “I know you’re probably still angry, but I wanted to tell you that you have a grandson now, and he has the Crest on his arm. He looks just like Alai but has my eyes. He’s the most perfect little boy in the world; he was born to be happy, and laughs and smiles all day long, even when he’s crying. Attached is a drawing.

“If you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s fine. But please don’t hate your grandson just because of his father. Someday he might want to know you, and he may surprise you. Your daughter, Tiana the Traitor.

“P.S. They don’t really have last names here, and that’s what everyone calls me. It amuses me because I’m not a traitor to the Almyrans. I wonder what they’ll call my son when he’s old enough for his own sobriquet.”

 _If only she knew._ He’d been named after her, continuing the slight of traitor with the twist of being named after his mother as if he were a bastard child, wholly unrelated to the royal family from a legitimate marriage. Not that he minded; Papa was the Starry-Eyed, and they couldn’t both be that even if they had hobby in common.

The drawing was missing. He set the letters aside and looked in the drawer again, but it was empty. _Odd._ Grandfather had told him once that he loved Claude from the moment he saw Papa’s sketch, so it was unlikely he would have destroyed it. He reached in, fingers scrabbling for the far side of the drawer, and he grinned when he felt it give and tilt up, revealing a second layer. Leave it to the old man to have a false bottomed drawer.

Three stacks of letters, all tied tight with the same yellow ribbon. Curious, he looked at the address on the outside. “Father.” Something nagged about the writing; he knew that hand, but he wasn’t sure where. He opened the first stack, and drew in a sharp breath when he understood. _Papa wrote to Grandfather, too._ Pages and pages; all about him, every spill and bump and fight seemingly described in as much detail Papa’s Fodlandic would allow. No wonder he hadn’t realized it right away, as they never wrote to each other in his mother’s language. 

One of the stacks was entirely of Papa’s sketches sent with his letters, all titled in Almyran. A baby sleeping, mouth wrapped around his thumb. “He even sleeps like a crescent moon.” As a boy grinning, laughing, hair wild. “Khalid met his first wyvern.” Laid out on the floor, limbs sprawled, crying. “I said it was too spicy for him, and he didn't listen.” Older, growing more serious. “He always looks like this playing twenty squares.” Sleeping again, around age ten. “Oasis fever, my poor son.”

At the bottom of the stack, another sealed letter, Papa’s name written on the front, slimmer than the one for his mother. Claude frowned; no letter for him? He tried not to be feel petulant about that; after all, he had been the one to hold Grandfather’s hand in his last moments.

He yawned and reached for his wine. Tomorrow would be a long day, and everyone would be watching him; time for bed. Claude considered briefly sleeping in this bed; no, not yet. Not until Oswald von Riegan was buried proper. An early supper, the other half decanter of wine, and then sleep.


	17. The Life and Legacy of Oswald von Riegan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fabrice is Judith's heir and oldest child. 
> 
> Thayer and Maxence were in the previous story, Maxence "caught" Claude being super Almyran when he first came to Derdriu. He's basically just a racist jerk.

Warm, dark, safe. There was nothing but soft blankets, furs perhaps, and someone else, a chest pressed close to his. Mouths tangled, they kissed with desperation, as if wanting to escape their bodies. Limbs wound, clinging to muscular shoulders, to hips and ass, hands gliding, slipping into hair to pull. Claude felt himself want to whine, unable to do so; instead, he pushed a foot between the other body’s calves and kneaded into the muscle there to signal his desire. A laugh into their kiss, and then that mouth on his bare shoulder. “So needy. Let’s take our time. What do you think, Khalid?” He felt himself arch, needing to gasp but still voiceless as teeth found skin and a hand guided his cock between warm thighs-

“Fuck!” He shivered as he woke, feeling the release as he surfaced. There was no need to relax and sag back into bed like previous dreams; he was already relaxed even as his traitorous dick emptied itself onto the bed. Again. Sticky, coated with sweat; well, he needed to bathe before the funeral, anyway.

A knock. “Are you all right?” _Thank the gods it’s only Aaron_. “Do I need to come in there?”

The thought of Aaron seeing this made him blush right down to his toes, despite the number of times he'd dealt with it before. “No, please, for the love of all the holy things in the world, do not come in here. Is breakfast ready?”

“Not yet, I was laying out your clothes.”

He rubbed his face, groaning. “Can you delay it an hour? I want a bath first.”

“Half hour, I’ve already drawn one.” _Oh, bless him._

Claude lay in the bath not five minutes later, blissfully alone. He could hear Aaron stripping the sheets in the next room, a task better left to maids; perhaps he’d sleep in the ducal apartments tonight. Of all the times to have one of his weird dreams. Best to put it out of his mind and untangle it later, and he dipped his head under the water’s surface.

* * *

They buried Duke Oswald von Riegan with a state funeral fitting the man who, for over fifty years, helmed the rowdy Leicester Alliance with his particular mix of astute opinions, blunt manner, and unrivaled political cunning. The Gloucesters provided flowers from their greenhouses, and yellow and white roses covered the casket and altar where the old man lay in state throughout the three hours of funeral rites and hymns, eulogies from the priest and Hercule Goneril, both who knew his grandfather the longest of all in attendance.

Claude watched and heard it all from the front pew alone, feeling oddly detached. _This isn’t Grandfather._ No one mentioned the man’s gentle manner, his penchant for mischief, his love for his family; then again, no one else got to see those parts, hidden behind the forbidding Duke Riegan mask he wore in public. Other than a few sniffles that he was sure was from Enora and perhaps a couple of the other servants, no one wept, not even Claude; how could he, with all those eyes watching, waiting to see any signs of weakness from the Riegan heir?

Six lords to carry the casket. Grandfather had lost most of his weight in the last few months so that many pallbearers were highly unnecessary, but it was tradition for the sovereign duke to be carried by a scion of each of the voting houses, and Claude insisted Daphnel be included; it felt wrong to include Lorenz but not Judith. Claude and Holst in the front, Achille and Lorenz next, and Judith and Anatole in the rear.

Claude was only vaguely aware of the crowd as they walked down the chapel aisle; he heard weeping from the back pews, but all his focus was on the task of putting one foot in front of the other from the chapel to the family crypt. He heard singing; a mourning hymn that the rest of the crowd picked up as they walked. It followed them as the mourners left pews to walk with the duke one last time.

No one followed them past the threshold; it was a narrow, dusty place, and more than once Claude found himself pressed a little too close to the wall to make room for Holst on the other side. Lorenz sneezed, and then Margrave Edmund. “Please don’t drop my grandfather,” he murmured after the second sneeze. Judith snorted.

At last, the priest stopped and indicated the place where Grandfather would rest between his wife Annemarie and Godfrey. Casket lowered into the tomb; workers would later close the stone lid over his body. He heard the other lords and the priest leave, shuffling away without speaking.

He had nothing to say to the old man; all their words had been said when Grandfather was alive. Instead, he looked at the other tombs, family he had never known. Annemarie von Riegan, nee Daphnel, and Godfrey von Riegan; her death date was only a few years after Godfrey was born, he noted. “Wonder how close a relation it is with Judith,” he murmured.

“Oswald was my uncle by marriage,” a woman said, and Judith laughed as he startled. “The Gonerils retaliated when your grandfather broke up the engagement between their house and Daphnel, and that’s how my mother lost our voting seat at the conference. Ironic, because she never approved of Aunt Annemarie marrying Oswald to begin with.”

“Daphnel’s usually helmed by a woman, isn’t that right?” He started walking deeper into the crypt, something having caught his eye; on the other side of his grandmother, a handful of tiny tombs, all named, almost all passed within a month of birth.

Judith put a hand on his shoulder. “The Daphnel family curse. It’s a miracle when one of us gives birth to a male child. I lost five myself before I had Fabrice.” Claude wondered if that was why he was an only child. A pat on his shoulder. “Are you ready to go back?” He nodded, and with one last touch of the casket, Claude left his grandfather in his resting place.

A short retirement to rooms so the mourners could collect themselves and get a bit more presentable for the wake. Doubtful any of the lords needed it, but it gave Claude a chance to cry a bit; a basin of cold water had already been left on his dressing room table.

Marcel entered with tea and mushroom soup as Claude finished drying his face; Aaron had been tasked with supervising the set up in the banquet hall. “Have the other lords been given their refreshments as well?”

Was that a hint of a smile? “Yes, your Grace. Lord Acheron was most pleased.”

“Excellent. That will be all, thank you.” That made him feel a bit better, and he tucked into his meal.

He expected the wake to be long and mostly boring; at least Aaron made sure he always had a glass in hand as he walked, guarded by both Gonerils and Judith from the most outrageous displays of simpering and fake crying. Hilda herself pinned a half dozen young men into conversation after one of them mentioned how Oswald seemed to lose his focus a few years ago, her political prowess appearing as if by magic. _All these people, and almost none of them cared for my grandfather._ They may be mourning the public figure of Oswald von Riegan, but only a handful liked the old man.

The most strangely sincere of them all: Renard Gloucester. The count came up to him, Lorenz trailing, just as Judith became engaged with Lord Thayer and his son Maxence who started making thinly veiled comments about Claude’s birth and family. It was still early in the evening, and Claude was still in his first glass, so he was sober enough to read the man. “I wanted to express my condolences. Oswald and I agreed on almost nothing, but he was a good man, and had his moments of greatness despite our differences.”  
Lorenz inclined his head. “Truly, a loss for the Leicester Alliance and for Fodlan.”

“Thank you, and the roses were lovely. They were his favorite, I’m sure you know.” His grandfather loathed the count, but that wasn’t something to be said at the moment. “He appreciated your steadfast commitment to Leicester.” He would have said more if not for the sounds of retching, and he turned.

Lord Acheron was putting on a fantastic display of public drunkenness by vomiting all over the mountain of sweet buns at the center of banquet table, stinking even from this distance. Everyone stopped to watch, silent and still. A few titters behind hands as he struggled to right himself, shaky and an impressive shade of red.

Lorenz huffed. “How could he be that drunk already? It’s unbecoming of nobility.” Claude smiled and stuck his nose in his own glass again. He knew two things about Acheron: the man was a fucking coward who never replied to the summons sent by his grandfather, and that coward loved mushrooms.

Two other facts, wholly unrelated to the first two: ink cap mushrooms on their own were harmless unless consumed with alcohol, and no wake for Oswald von Riegan would be complete without copious amounts of wine, and the Riegan wine cellars would be significantly diminished following the wake. All the lords got the same mushroom soup before the wake proper, save one serving Enora had prepared special “for the young duke.” A quick swap of bowls by Marcel, and no one else was the wiser that Acheron had been served anything but the same soup the rest of their guests had received. Servants came to clear the mess and carry Acheron to somewhere more private to finish emptying his stomach. “Some men just can’t hold their wine, it seems.” _Grandfather, you would be proud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are a real mushroom! Basically, they exacerbate the effects of alcohol, and can give you alcohol poisoning if you drink too much.


	18. Pomp and Circumstance

“Can some please explain to me why this was not considered two weeks ago?” Claude von Riegan, sovereign duke of the Leicester Alliance and probable crown prince of Almyra, was pouring sweat and wondering how long he could stand on this tailor’s stool before his knees gave out. Draped on his shoulders was a robe made of absurdly heavy ermine, and even as he stood on the stool, it brushed the floor. On one side Marcel, on the other Aaron, and they had heavy cloak pins between their teeth as they worked furiously to hike up the hem so that Claude could walk without tripping. Today, he would be formally acknowledged as Duke Riegan and as chair of the Roundtable Conference, hence the furs that weighed nearly as much as he did.

At least Marcel had the dignity to remove the pins from his mouth before he spoke. “We were all very focused on the funeral, your Grace. Apologies.”

Claude sighed. “Who was this robe even made for? I’m not even that short.” A woman’s laugh rang out from the other side of the dressing screens. “Hilda, please. I’m suffering here.” She was supposed to be here to advise and approve of his appearance before he walked out of the apartments, but really she was mostly drinking tea and mocking him.

“You could always switch with Holst, his hit just below the knee.” The clink of porcelain; oh, how he wanted a drink of something, anything.

“Miss Goneril, I really must protest at the joke. The robes of state are ancient and sacred things. The Riegans have had these since they were still a scion of the Blaiddyd family.”

Well, that explained it; Dimitri was a much larger man than Claude, and still had that look of wanting to grow even taller. Also explained the smell. “A very ancient and storied cloak that you are currently gouging pins through.”

How Marcel managed to look this haughty while bent double, Claude wasn’t sure, but he was a tad envious at the man’s collected demeanor. “There are already holes, we just have to locate them.” A glance at Aaron. “Does he complain this much when you dress him?”

“I don’t.” Aaron spoke around the pin in his mouth. “His Grace prefers to dress himself, I just lay out his clothes for the day.”

“I blame you for this, then, Mr. de Janvier, for you should have insisted that he get used to being attended to as fitting a duke.”

“Pardon, Mr. Bonhomme, but I keenly remember that the first thing you said to me was ‘Master Claude is an odd one, and perhaps it would be best to allow him his strange ways.’” Another snicker from Hilda, and another grunt from Aaron as he set the last pin and righted himself.

_Finally_. Claude stepped down from the stool on his shaky knees, grateful for any movement at last. “Next, the coronet.” He could see Marcel’s frown. “We really should have had his hair trimmed before this.”

“I forbid it,” Hilda called in a mocking, imperious tone before dissolving in a fit of giggles again. “This is the best Claude’s hair has looked in months.”

He would be sure to tell Gigi and Fatimah, as they had been the last to cut it. “Thanks, Hilda.” Claude watched as Aaron set a wooden box on the desk and opened it. “That’s a coronet?” Damn thing looked more like a crown than anything; at least it wasn’t nearly as gaudy as his robes. “I suppose this is also some storied treasure from our time as part of the Kingdom.”

At least Marcel cracked a smile. “Hardly. When the Crescent Moon War happened, your ancestor took the coronet from that time and sent it to Fhridiad in pieces. This is the coronet from after that war.”

Claude sighed and picked it up. At least this fit on his head, and he settled it just against his forehead and turned to look in the mirror. “I look like a kid playing dress up.” _And the others are supposed to take me seriously, looking like this mess?_

“Let me see.” Footsteps, and he caught the scent of Hilda’s perfume before she appeared behind him in the mirror. “Oh, you don’t look that bad.” She reached up and adjusted the coronet, smoothed the cloak’s shoulders. “That’s better.”

What would he do without Hilda? “You always did have a good eye for those things.” On impulse, he kissed her forehead just to see her roll her eyes and push him away with a laugh. “So, what am I supposed to do? Look dukely while the others swear not-fealty to me or whatever?”

“Hand me that rag, would you?” Hilda took the cloth from Aaron and began patting his sweaty face dry. “Pretty much. The other lords might object if they want, but it would be Gloucester with maybe Albrecht.”

“And Acheron.”

“Ah, he’s still feeling a bit delicate,” Hilda smirked. “He agreed to abstain from the proceedings.”

Claude laughed. “Maybe I should have poisoned Count Gloucester, too.”

Aaron frowned, but he couldn’t tell if he was upset that Marcel had been in charge of that scheme or if he disagreed with it to begin with. “Are you ready, your Grace?”

“As I’ll ever be. Let’s get this over with.”

The ceremony was held in a large conference room in the same wing as the smaller room they usually met when it was just the voting lords gathered. A couple empty seats as Claude took his place; one was Acheron, others were houses that were no more, like Marianne’s parents. Hilda had been right; he could see most of Holst’s calf under the hem of his formal state robes. They were all dressed similarly, though of course the Duke Riegan’s had to be the finest, the most sweltering, and probably the smelliest. _At least it’s only the once._ Unless he was also expected to get married in this thing, goddess forbid; he’d find a way to accidentally throw it into the fire if it came to that. _As if I could throw this any distance._ He had a small consolation in the fact that they all looked as sweaty and miserable as Claude felt.

Gloucester, being the longest-serving member of the voting lords, began the proceedings with a clearing of his throat. “Since the Crescent Moon War, we lords of the Leicester Alliance have banded together as a collective nobility to rule as equals; one vote for each of the five seats, no one more or less important. There has always been one sovereign over that conference table to set agendas and call for votes when necessary, and when that sovereign passes, we gather to acknowledge our new sovereign duke.

“It was the wish of Oswald von Riegan, the sovereign of Leicester and head of house Riegan, that his grandson, Claude von Riegan, take his place as both sovereign and as head of their house. It is now time for us to determine if we wish to honor that intention of our last sovereign, or if this Alliance wishes to choose another house to take that seat.” He paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. “Do any wish to speak on the subject?”

“How do we even know that he’s really a Riegan?” Thayer called from his seat; Claude attempted to look at least neutral at the jab. “It just seems strange that no one knows who his parents are, and he just appears after Godfrey’s death.”

“I have vouched for the family connection, Thayer,” Judith replied. “You would question to honor of Daphnel? If he wasn’t a true Riegan, he wouldn’t bear the Crest, now would he? That Crest is notorious for only appearing in the bloodline, and only among males.”

“What would you know of Crests, Lady Daphnel?” Albrecht called. “Or of strong bloodlines, for that matter?”

“Watch yourself, Lord Albrecht.” Holst glowered. “I won’t tolerate disrespect toward Judith, especially not from you.”

“And what do you know of family, Albrecht?” Judith shouted back. Whistles from the crowd, a cheer from Holst. “I thought we were discussing whether or not Claude should be the sovereign, not old news about the Daphnels. Though if you want to make me sovereign, I wouldn’t say nay.” 

Thayer cleared his throat. “So why not discuss his family connections? If Oswald wanted to put a child in charge of his territory after his death, that was his choice. But to put someone we know almost nothing about on the council and to make him the sovereign during such times? Have you lost your reason?”

Claude licked his lips and cleared his throat. _Here we go._ “How old is Emperor Edelgard?” A hush. “Or Prince Dimitri? How many of you know them as I do? Did you attend classes with them, Lord Thayer? Or share meals with them?” Someone whispered, but he couldn’t see who; perhaps it was a buzzing in his skull instead. “We can look at the same maps and follow the troop movements across them, but I’ve spent a year in the same academy as the other leaders of Fodlan, and I know them better than you, especially how they fight.” He turned to his right. “Duke Goneril, could even you provide that kind of experience to bear if we get dragged into this conflict?”

Holst shook his head. “I cannot.” The Goneril Duke leaned back in his seat. “Regardless of that experience, I find the Duke Riegan to be a capable man much like his grandfather. Do we truly want to debate changing the council head in such times?”

Beside him, Edmund shifted in his seat. His furs were the newest looking; a new robe for a new lord. “I worry what will happen when I leave this world for the arms of the goddess. I was under the impression that family matters and succession were left to the house in question and no further. You have to go back ten generations to find a connection between myself and my Marianne, yet no one has dared to demand proof of our kinship.” He nodded at Claude. “While young and perhaps a bit rougher around the edges than we’re used to, the Duke Riegan has run our councils well enough.”

Ordelia lifted his head. “What say you, Count Gloucester? It sounds we are all agreed on the council that Duke Riegan should stay as chair, but we all know that you and the Riegans have had your disagreements.”

“More like they fight like wolves over a carcass.” Claude hid a smile at Holst’s comment.

Renard Gloucester glanced at Claude, and then his gaze moved over the crowd at large. “I have too much respect for Oswald von Riegan to deny his last wishes. He was a man who helmed Leicester for longer than almost everyone in this room has lived, and he was the same age as the current Duke Riegan when he took his seat. If anyone could judge if a man as young as this could rule, it would be Oswald.”

Judith cleared her throat. “If all the voting lords are in agreement, then the assembly at large has no power to overturn that decision.”

Claude closed his eyes a moment, feeling a sudden moment of release; he had not noticed how tense he had become in the discussion. “Long live our sovereign, the Duke Claude von Riegan.” He opened his eyes; Count Gloucester stood, and the other lords followed his example, and they bowed to him. “May he guide the Leicester Alliance with the grace and wisdom of his forebears.” 

Strange, this lump in his throat, and he swallowed painfully. “Thank you, my fellows. I hope that I will live up to the legacy of my beloved grandfather and all those that came before me.” Despite his pretty words, Claude had never felt more lonely in his life.

* * *

“Someone please get this off of me,” Claude called as soon as he shut the door of the ducal apartments. “I’m not in the mood to walk another step in this thing.” He looked for the clasps, digging through the fur with his fingers.

Marcel came out of the dressing room and came forward. Claude’s hands pushed out of the way, he undid the series of buttons and clasps that held the cloak in place around the duke’s shoulders. It fell with a groan of relief from Claude, and Marcel scooped it up from the floor. “The rest I can take off myself, thank you.” He stretched to give his aching back. “Are you sure I can’t burn that thing?”

“I would be duty bound to stop you.” Jokes, from Marcel? He must be dreaming.

But that did give him pause as the manservant followed him into the dressing room to gather the rest of the stately things from Claude as he undressed. “You know, Marcel, my grandfather set aside a considerable sum for you in his will.”

“I know.” At least he let Claude undress himself, and the duke heard the rustling of fabric and fur, presumably to put the robe back into its trunk for transport back to the family vault.

“What are you planning to do? You could retire, if you want.” He didn’t need two manservants, after all.

A pause. “Is that what you wish? My understanding from Mr. de Janvier is you intend to make the manor your permanent home. You will still need someone to oversee the palace when you’re not in residence.”

“You really like me that much, Marcel?” He tossed the ceremonial shirt and pants over the dressing screen; gods, he felt lightheaded from the coolness of the air on his sweat-glazed body. Even the most strenuous training session had nothing on this. “I don’t have any objections if that is really what you want.”

Another pause in the conversation, and the dressing room was filled with sounds of rustling fabric as Marcel packed the outfit away and Claude dressed in a decidedly more comfortable suit of clothes. “Permission to be frank, your Grace.”

“You don’t need to ask. I’ve got a thick skin.”

A soft laugh; now he was really dreaming. “I interviewed nearly a hundred before choosing Aaron as your manservant. Some of the things they would say, and in front of your grandfather at times were, ah, unkind.”

Claude could only imagine, considering the things the so-called refined lords and ladies said to his face. “You said some rather unkind things, as well.” After all, it had been Marcel to order his head to be practically shaved and fussed over the color of Claude’s skin clashing with his clothes.

“I know. But you understand now that your grandfather was concerned about your acceptance into Leicester society?” Yes, he did, but it still stung. “I remember the rumors around Lord Godfrey, and I only did what I thought was best.”

He stepped out from behind the screen as he worked the last button of his jacket. “You really cared for my uncle.” As to the exact level of intimacy between them, Claude wasn’t going to ask.  
Marcel sighed. “He was a good man. I can’t speak of his leadership qualities, but I never had a cross word with him.”

“Probably not the best quality in the Leicester Alliance. Cross words is all we trade in those conferences.” Claude smiled when the manservant did, an idea forming. “Wait right here.”

The bedroom was as he left it before the funeral, and he picked up the miniature portrait of the young blond boy from the bedside table. He had no use for it, and there were formal portraits of the man in the great hall. Marcel still worked packing the trunk when he returned, but he paused as Claude held out the painting. “I know you didn’t know him when he was young, but please take it.”

Was it his imagination, or was the man’s eyes wet? Marcel didn’t reach for it, but instead bent at the waist in a bow. “Your Grace is too kind.” The miniature changed hands, and Marcel carefully tucked it into his jacket. “You are a good man, too, you know.”

“Thank you." He felt very tired, wanting nothing more than to flop onto a sofa and drown in a book. "And I think that’s enough honesty for one day. I’ll be retiring for the day.”

“Very good, your Grace.” The trunk shut, clasps secured. “Would you like tea brought? Rose petal, perhaps?” There was the Marcel he knew and loved.


	19. A Vexing Puzzle

Thank the gods that was over, and Claude escaped to the comfort of his manor. By now, the barracks had been built and the main house was mostly empty again; his solitude would be sweet after all that formality nearly suffocating him.

He landed midday in the field, and children came to undo the tack and rub Tulip down to keep her from developing scale rot. Fatimah stood in the door of the kitchen, rubbing her hands clean on a towel. “The others?”

“Enora and Aaron are traveling by horse, so we’ll see them this afternoon.” Technically the cook was in one of his carriages, but close enough. “Is lunch ready? I’m starved.”

“Nothing but mince pies today, there’s a few left over from feeding the farm hands.” He took two and wandered up to the solar with strict instructions he wanted to be interrupted for nothing and no man. “I can make my own tea, thank you,” he said before anyone could fuss.

Claude found a sofa by the window; his favorite view in all of Fodlan. Though his trip had been dry, it had clearly rained here in the morning, and he could see the verdant glow of it in the noon sun. Children played in the damp grass of the meadow; their mothers would fuss later over muddied clothes and faces, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. He sucked on his thumb to clean it of fat and mince mutton, feeling himself settle into his comfort. How much had he been holding onto? Not even the privacy of his rooms in the palace felt as intimate as the manor solar. Perhaps because this had been his place of solace when his parents were thought to be dead and Almyra lost to him forever.

He reached in his jacket and pulled out the letters. Mom, Papa, and the letter from months ago when he was moping in the manor, too drunk and angry to care about anything beyond his own misery. The last letter Grandfather had written him; no, the old man could never be that heartless. What happened? Had he gotten too sick to write with his trembling hands, too weak to even lift a pillow. He looked at the names on the letters to his parents; Claude thought he saw a slight quiver in those lines, but that could also be wishful thinking on his part.

“You’ve disappointed me.” No, those weren’t the last words of his doting, loving grandfather. “At least Riegan lives on.” Claude sighed and pressed his forehead against the cool glass pane. Letters to his parents, but his last words were about the duty, the responsibility of Riegan, a burden that was Claude’s alone now. _He set me with a pair of impossible, contradictory tasks, that old bastard._ One last riddle, one last game. _And I never did beat him at chess_. Well, he would figure out this puzzle, come what may.

But first. Claude reached for the necklace and the little charm of a golden deer his Grandfather had given him when he first came to Fodlan; once it had been Godfrey’s, given to him by Grandmother, a little protective spell weaving its way through the family. He sunk further into the sofa and buried his face into the cushions to muffle the pathetic sounds of sniffling.

* * *

He spent his days in the solar, now off-limits to the staff at large since Claude had come back, and despite Aaron's best efforts started to look a little bedraggled, but he wanted none of the servants to accidentally undo any of his hard work. Letters came from Derdriu, sent on by Marcel; he read them, responded to them, burned them.

All the sofas and armchairs had been pushed to the edges of the room save a dining chair Claude had filched from downstairs, and in the center of it all, a map of Fodlan lay unfurled across six tables of roughly similar heights. Heavy religious texts pinned the corners down so it would lay flat. On one of the books ( _The Ordination Rites of Priesthood_ ), a box of commander's tokens lay open, a third of the pieces still in it, laying in a jumbled mess. The rest he had set out on the map to mirror his most recent information about the war from Judith’s lean information. _Still a stalemate in Faerghus._

For the last week and a half, he woke at dawn with Aaron shaking him, ate breakfast standing in the kitchen while the cooks proofed bread and finished making the meal for the farmhands under Enora and Fatimah’s watchful eyes, then Claude walked upstairs into the solar and shut himself in to consider his map. He worked until he was half-blind; for a break, he read the stacks of letters of his grandfather’s. The letters from his parents he finished quickly; they were mostly about him, and as embarrassing as some of them were with mentions of his less stellar exploits, but there was a comfort to the familiarity there.

Next, he tried to read the stack of letters between his grandparents. They started innocently enough, sweet courtship letters between young nobles, but once the greetings and signatures changed from dear and darling to husband and wife, those letters made Claude blush a deep scarlet right down to the tips of his toes. There were so some tame, affectionate passages (“Courage, my dear Annemarie,” Grandfather wrote more than once in reply to Grandmother’s fretting about pregnancy, “I’ve a good feeling about this child.”), but his grandmother especially wrote expressively about bedroom matters, made worse by the fact that the ones with the raciest passages were the most creased and worn of the stack. _Grandfather, you scoundrel._ Still, he couldn’t find it in him to burn them, and kept them neatly tied and locked away in his trunk.

The letters between Grandfather and Godfrey were the most interesting. Some personal matters, of course, mostly his grandfather asking when Godfrey would decide on a bride and his uncle deflecting the question. But more interesting were the hints of politics; there were gaps in the letters, indicating some had been burned for containing too much information of that nature, but there were still bits here and there. Perhaps one day Claude would put himself into weaving those strands together to make sense of the tapestry of it all; right now, it would have to remain a pet project.

He was considering a letter from Holst with one eye, the map with the other when Fatimah entered the room with a knock, tray in hand with tea, lunch, and more letters from the Alliance lords. Rabbit stew, soft brown bread, and an apricot neatly sliced. “You’re not Aaron.”

“He’s distracted.” She sat down beside him. “You and I need to talk.”

Claude raised an eyebrow as he picked up his bowl. “What about?” She did make the best stew; he would never say it aloud for fear of breaking Enora’s heart, but he couldn’t help being an Almyran boy in his soul.

“You. Why do you stay in this room, moping and pretending to work on whatever this is?” She gestured at the map. “You’re not at war yet, so this shouldn’t be your main concern. There are better things to be focusing on.”

“I’m working out a very delicate problem.” Unlike the map in the palace, Claude marked all the known Alliance troops; doubtful there were any mice in these walls. He reached over and plucked the general token from Derdriu. “Can I leave without this Alliance falling to pieces?”

She considered the map, and then him. “How long do you mean to be gone?”

He shrugged. “However long it takes for me to find my parents.” He’d run out of paper trying to compose a letter to his mother and had given up. How could he put such news in a letter, black and white with nothing to cushion it? And if he was being entirely honest with himself, their letters made the ache of missing them all the more keen. Now with Grandfather gone, Fodlan felt lonelier than ever; dukes had no friends or confidants, only allies and family.

 _And those damn dreams._ They were nightly now, interrupting his sleep as he forced himself awake before the bedding was soiled again; those racy letters between his grandparents didn’t help matters, Claude was certain. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for him, back to the familiar vistas of his youth. If not, well, at least he wouldn’t have to endure Aaron’s raised eyebrows at the mess.

All of that was selfish he knew, just flimsy excuses to fly east, but it was better than nothing. She was still watching him. “Aaron is a capable man, he can manage here well enough. All you have to do is find someone to manage your lordly things, right?”

There was something about her that made him think she was more than just a villager from Almyra. And if she was, well, her talent was wasted there. “You’ll help him, I hope.”

“As best I can.” Fatimah shrugged. “But then again, that might be an issue. He’s still hasn’t come upstairs, after all.”

Oh, this was going to be good. “What did you do to him?”

“Kissed him in the pantry.” Claude snorted, covering his mouth to laugh. She shrugged again. “He didn’t seem opposed to it, but perhaps I was wrong.”

Aaron may have had his rough edges, but he was sure this was more embarrassment than anything; he had seen the way they looked at each other, the laughter when they talked. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, even if it means you’ll be stealing my steward.” If it made Aaron happy, then Claude wouldn’t stand in the way, even if finding another man with as much patience could prove difficult.

A smile. “If it all works out, perhaps this little corner of Fodlan wouldn’t be so bad to stay in.” She stood up. “I have supper to oversee.” The door shut quietly behind her.

Claude stared at the map, following the invisible lines, the possibilities. His eyes fell on the general’s token in Daphnel. She’d fight him if he gave her half a chance, so he wouldn’t give her the opportunity. He stood up and moved to the desk so he could write a letter to Judith.

* * *

From the air, it was impossible to tell where Fodlan ended and Almyra began, the mountains of both countries bleeding into each other. Claude shivered, his riding gear not nearly warm enough for mid spring in the Throat. _How does Hilda survive in all those silks she likes?_ At least it would be over soon enough.

He’d flown in a northeasterly direction away from the Locket to avoid detection. The last thing he needed was to explain to Holst Goneril why the sovereign duke was on a secret trip to Almyra, and why he had only packed a small bag of Almyran-style clothes made lovingly by his plethora of grandmothers; even Claude didn’t have enough pretty words for that conversation.

Once he was clear of the mountains, he turned south and make his way to the grasslands there; they were unlike the green places of Fodlan; here, the grass grew long and yellowed in the heat, hardy with deep roots. Even if a whole army of cavalry came tromping through, the grass would still spring up, unbent and unbroken. The perfect place for Nader the Undefeated to make his home.

It was dusk when he landed to make camp. Tulip caught an elk, and he staked and tethered her while she began to eat; Claude took his own cold supper away from the wyvern, wrapped up in a cloak from the packs and Failnaught in the grass beside him. _Nothing like an Almyran sunset._ A silver of pinks and reds on the horizon, a thin strip of bright blue, then the inky violet blackness of night, with the stars coming out as the last of the sun’s glow slunk out of sight. There were too many trees in the Alliance to really see the horizon like this; but then, there wasn’t really views like his manor grounds after a rain here.

Claude fell back to look up at the blanket of twinkling lights. _I miss Papa._ How many nights did they spend on the palace roof watching the stars? Nights when he couldn’t sleep, especially when he’d been unlucky enough to get caught by his cousins and he had bruises blooming everywhere from their rougher tormenting. _I gave as good as I got, though, but I never started it._ How many times had all those Alis and Fatimahs been mysteriously absent from family parties due to his tricks and potions?

 _Guess I’m Khalid again._ He didn’t feel any different, moving from Khalid to Claude von Riegan and back again. But each person had their own expectations placed on them; just how would the growth of Claude von Riegan change Khalid’s responsibilties? He imagined he would find out soon when he reached Nader’s fortress; he doubted the general himself was home, but his wife rarely left the place these days, and if anyone knew where he could start looking for his parents, it would be the Undefeated’s equally formidable wife, Ameera Wyvern-Speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lie, y'all. This was originally meant to be like chapter 7 or something, and then I went and got Claude almost assassinated and that took a million chapters. I thought we'd be in Almyra by chapter 10, tops. I changed the person he has the middle conversation with only six times.
> 
> So, we are FINALLY IN ALMYRA, BABY! We're gonna meet (my version of) Claude's parents! Nader! Nader's wife! Desert vistas and lots of wyverns! Lots and lots of lamb dishes!
> 
> I'm so very happy to gtfo out of Fodlan, ya'll don't even know. I hope you are not let down by later chapters based on this comment's overexuberance.
> 
> ALSO: shout out to ttacticianmagician for giving me the brilliant idea to add details about all those letters Oswald kept. Thank you, I think it really helped me solidify this bit. I know your comment was probably about the letters to Claude's parents, but that part will have to wait. ;)


	20. The Wrath of the Wyvern-Speaker

He landed a respectable distance away from Nader’s fortress two days later; no sense getting shot out of the sky like an idiot. She curled up on herself and fell asleep almost instantly. “I know, girl, the last couple days have been rough.” Now they were clear the mountains, they baked in the sun as they flew southward with no cover, no shade whatsoever, not even a cloud in the sky.

His feet didn’t want to cooperate as he trudged toward the fort, looking for the road. _Just think about the chilled lime and mint water Ameera always has in the kitchen._ One foot in front of the other, that was the way.

The fortress rose in his vision as he found the road at last, a sandstone marvel of interconnected buildings surrounded by a tall exterior wall. It was situated there to provide surveillance on the Locket; if there was a raid, any army would get lost in the maze of the interior, vulnerable to the archers on the outer wall parapet. Little Prince Khalid learned his first strategy studying the fortress, and he knew the nooks of it almost as well as its master.

He stopped when someone called for him to halt, and he put his hands on his head, dropping to his knees to look at unthreatening as possible. “State your name and business.” He looked at the guard in the front parapet and tried to ignore the glint of arrowheads from the narrow cut-outs in the front of the fortress. 

He licked his lips. “I’m Prince Khalid of the Traitor’s Blood, son of Alai the Starry-Eyed and Tiana the Demon Queen. I need to talk to Ameera, called the Wyvern-Speaker. It’s important.” How seamlessly he slipped back into Khalid’s skin, as if Duke Riegan was a suit of clothes to be doffed.

The guard leaned forward. “Don’t look like a prince of Almyra. Anyone could pierce their ear and ask to speak to the lady of the house.”

Khalid bit back a groan of frustration. “Just get Ameera and let her have a look? She knows my face.”

“Not a chance. If you were really the prince, you’d know that Nader and your parents are at war with each other.” A hand waved. “So you can go on, no one believes your grifter’s charade.”

There was nothing for it, he guessed, and Khalid stood up with a sigh and a lewd gesture at the guards; their laughter followed him on his way back to Tulip.

And he walked all that way, too _._ _What a pain._ And since when were Papa and Nader at war? Who was going to believe that nonsense? Nader’s mother had been Papa’s wet nurse, and they shared a crib as children. Ridiculous to think the two of them fighting about anything, much less it escalating to blows.

Another supper of lukewarm water from his skin and deer jerky. _Great_. Maybe this hadn’t been the brightest idea. Nothing much to do but lick his wounds and head home; he had no other leads but Nader to find his parents, and he wasn’t going to waste his time listening to village gossip and try to determine how many moons old it might be.

Khalid stopped as he approached where he had left Tulip; either he was going mad from the heat, or there were two wyverns tethered there. A man stood up as he walked closer, and he knew that face; not a mirage, then. “Kiddo, what in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing? You could have ruined everything.”

“Nader. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been out of town.” Arms grasped, and then he was pulled into a rough hug. “Gods, you’re going to break me.”

“Doubtful.” They separated, and the general gave him a look over. “You got taller. We all worried you’d take after Tiana in that way, so it’s good to see you fill out a bit.”

A groan. “Mom still beat you up, remember.”

“No one will ever let me forget. I think half the court fell in love with her that day. I know I did.” Khalid snorted. “Don’t tell my wife.” A waterskin was offered. “Speaking of Ameera, a gift for you.”

It was the most delicious water Khalid ever drank, and forced himself to take small sips to keep from getting overwhelmed and fainting, always a danger when one was overheated. “So, what’s this about you fighting with Papa? Doubt you would be out here if that were true. And how did I not see you fly over me?”

“You were too busy kicking dirt and feeling sorry for yourself.” Nader sat down in the tall grass, and Khalid followed his example, drinking more out of the skin; less risk fainting from here. “It’s a ruse. Or was supposed to be, anyway, if Farid believed it.”

“No one’s going to believe you and Papa are fighting. So what’s the scheme?” He offered the skin, but Nader shook his head.

“Alai makes to siege the fortress, Farid pins his army against the walls. We make a show of the gate being breached and his army coming inside.”

Khalid considered it; a good plan, as Papa knew the fortress well, and they could scatter and lay in wait for Farid’s army to give chase into the labyrinth before Nader and his troops turn against the Usurper from the parapets. “So what’s with the secrecy? They could have just let me in.”

A smack on the side of his head, just enough to sting. “I taught you better than that. There’s always one spy at least, and we’ve got to really play our parts. Not that it’s worked so far. My commanders know, of course, but most everyone else is in the dark.”

Waterskin emptied, and he was feeling a bit more alive than before. “So take me as a hostage.” They could really sell Papa and Nader’s fighting if the general took the crown prince as prisoner. “Spread it far and wide that you caught Prince Khalid. Put me in a cell, even, if you have to. Anything’s better than sleeping outside for another night.”

The general frowned and stroked his beard, considering the possibility. “It’s risky, but it might work.” He sighed. “But I need something of yours to send on as proof to really make it seem real on Alai’s end. Not a lock of your hair or your earring, either. Don’t try that with me, kiddo.”

Was he really going to do it? Something of value, precious and irreplaceable. _Guess I’m really doing this_. Khalid removed his gloves and twisted the signet ring off his finger. Nader looked at it as it sat on his outstretched palm, and then as the general reached for it, he said, “Pretty sure this means you’re Duke Riegan now.”

Nader laughed and picked up the ring. “I’ve heard Derdriu is a lovely city, I wouldn’t mind owning it.”

“It’s a pain in the ass to run.” He stood up to begin preparing. First: Failnaught. He picked up the bow. Nader whistled as it began to glow and warm in his hand. “Help me unstring this, we don’t want anyone trying to use it.”

Nader grunted as he pushed himself upright. “Just what were you doing in Fodlan? Are you really Duke Riegan, and what’s with this bow?”

One limb planted into the earth, Khalid put his foot between string and bow to bend it. “Living with my grandfather mostly.” Nader pressed the upper limb downward, just enough for Khalid to unhook the string from the top notch. He held it out for the general to take, and it returned to its dull cream as it changed hands.

Nader caressed the bow, examining every inch with his expert eyes. “What a strange thing. Is it really that dangerous?”

 _Well, it’s a weapon._ “If anyone other than me uses it, they can expect to die a very painful death.” He hoped his grandfather was right and that it took several people to string it; that meant less chance of someone tempting fate and becoming another Miklan. Next, he bent down and began to rub his hands in the dirt, smearing it over his clothes and face. Bruises were unnecessary, but it would look odd if there was no evidence of a struggle between the two of them. 

Last, Khalid held out his hands, pressed at the wrists. “Well, let’s get to it, then. Unless you plan on tying me up after we get into the fort?”

Nader sighed. “Ameera is going to kill me.”

The first part of their plan went off like clockwork with Khalid was led into the fortress, a rope tied around his waist and hands, trying his best to look pathetically defeated. Nader stopped in the courtyard, rubbing his chin. “Everyone, listen up.” He could always command a room. The general’s hand seized a hank of his hair, and he allowed Nader to pull, his wince not entirely for show. “This is Prince Khalid. It seems that some of you may have forgotten that the little wife of Prince Alai has western relations. He’s going to be our special guest for awhile now.” A shove, and there was laughter when Khalid stumbled; now _that_ had been for show, as he knew Nader capable of throwing him across the courtyard if he really tried.

“That’s quite enough.” The laughter died. The Wyvern-Speaker was, on a typical day, a pleasant woman whose guests never wanted for anything, including entertaining conversation; however, her nickname wasn’t just pretty words, and she was known far and wide as the best wyvern trainer in all of Almyra, and Nader’s success as a general lay heavily on his wife’s near-mystical ability with the creatures. And now, the woman who could tame a feral wyvern with a word and a look came charging out of the house and across the courtyard, dressed in the heavy leather jerkin and gloves. “You go too far, husband.”

The general flinched; only she could get such a reaction out of Nader. “Miri, I can explain.” 

“Explain, bah.” A finger jabbed the general’s chest. “Untie Khalid this moment, or I’ll teach your mounts all sorts of tricks and you’ll be falling out your saddle when you least expect it.”

He took her hands, rubbing soothing circles in the leather. “This is war, you know that. I’ll make sure he’s treated very well.”

Khalid glanced up through a curtain of mussed hair; she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “It’s all right, Ameera.” 

She snatched her hands away from Nader’s and glared at him. Then she looked up at the troops watching from the parapets and the training yard. “If one hair on his head is injured, you’ll all regret it. Am I understood?” Nods, mutters, a couple laughs. “Tell your fellows. Anyone who gets caught even looking at his Highness cross will be mucking wyvern shit from here until the Dragon sets.” She stomped away, still muttering curses and throwing glares over her shoulder at her husband. Their eyes met, and Nader winked. _Couldn’t have been better._


	21. A Reunion of Old Friends

Some imprisonment. He was taken to an apartment, hands untied, given a bath and new clean clothes, some from his packs, others new things he had never seen. Almyran clothes, and Khalid sighed with relief as he pulled on the soft trousers and shirt and wound a sash around his waist. Food was brought, a sweet lamb dish stuffed with fruits and nuts, served with yogurt and flatbread dripping with butter and honey. He ate until he barely move, and he practically crawled to the low bed in the other room to take a blissfully long nap. There were guards outside his door, of course, but Khalid had no intention of trying to run away; he was right where he wanted to be.

Books were brought in the second day; he and Nader shared the same taste in poets, and he read them propped up on an elbow in the bed with a pitcher of water on the floor within easy reach, his mouth moving to repeat the best passages to himself, letting the poetry tumble from his lips in a mindless sort of way. Midday he napped off the worst of the heat, full from the meal brought in. In the afternoon he liked to look out the window down into the courtyard. Lime trees, almonds, sweet figs; they bloomed in whites and violet tones, and the scent of flowers drifted into his room; it made him smile. In Fodlan, florals tended to be overpowering, but Khalid found he could even tolerate the whiff of rosewater in his meals. _We all have our prejudices._

The fourth day he had a visitor who came with raised voices at the door. “Who is the lady of the house?” Ameera shouted; Khalid stifled a smile in case the door flung open suddenly. “I don’t care what Nader said, I’m telling you now that I need the prince to come with me. Follow us all you like, but I’m not going to move from this spot until it’s done.”

Khalid shut his book and sat up, adjusting his clothes and rewinding his sash in a hurry to make himself more presentable. The door opened, and Ameera poked her head in. “Come on, you.”

He followed her through the fortress, his guards following from a discreet distance. “So where are we going?”

She huffed. “Your wyvern has been crying since you arrived. I need you to get her to stop.”

Odd, Tulip was generally well-behaved, and they didn’t have any particular attachment to each other. “I’ll do what I can.”

The aviary of the fortress was easily ten times the size of the one in Garreg Mach, built to hold dozens of mounts for Nader’s forces, all trained and cared for under the direction of his wife. Trills rang out as they entered, whines and creaking of tethers, and she trilled back to settle them. “Yes, my loves, I know.”

He spied Tulip among them, easy to spot as she was smaller than the wyverns bred for Nader’s forces and war, and she was also fast asleep. “I thought you said,” he gestured, words failing him.

Ameera pursed her lips. “No, not her, she’s been a dear. I’ve never met a more docile creature.”

They passed through a set of tall glass doors at the other end of the aviary. The guards didn’t follow after a glare from Ameera, but instead put themselves on either side of the doorway to wait. It was more a garden than an aviary, with tall trees for shade and a soft, springy turf instead of the hard packed dirt of the main aviary; the Wyvern-Speaker’s sanctum.

Three brown wyverns for the general, four for his wife, but Khalid could only see one, a juvenile with scales marble-white and golden eyes. “Marmoulak.” She trilled back, loud and petulant. When had she gotten so big? Last time he was home, she was just getting too large for his lap. Khalid reached out his hands to let her smell, and then she buried her face into his stomach, making little squeals of delight as he carefully scritched under her neck scales. “You remember me.”

“Of course she does.” Ameera ran a hand over one of the nubs of antlers still forming on Marmoulak’s crown. “That’s why we raise them from hatchlings to know their rider, so there’s always that connection, but you know that.”

He did. Khalid kissed her snout. “Do you remember when they gave her to me? Laughing that the half-breed prince should get the defect.” It was either take the albino or be left without a mount of his own, and so Khalid didn’t mind that she was an odd little thing.

“Joke’s on them, she’s not done growing, and already such a lovely girl.” Ameera trilled at Marmoulak, who cooed back; she could be a dangerous woman on the battlefield with that power of hers to make any wyvern love her. “She didn’t even fuss the first time we put a saddle on her, though she fusses about everything else. She was meant to be a fighter.”

“How did she know I was here?” He sat on the grass, and Marmoulak immediately draped her head across his lap to be petted. Khalid obliged; she liked to have her growing antlers rubbed in particular, and he was rewarded by more of those cooing trills with each pass of his hands.

Ameera shrugged. “Probably could smell you on the tack from the other mount. She has a keen sense of smell, this one.” She shook her head, even as she patted the wyvern’s flank. “I see you’ve settled down now that you’ve gotten your way, brat.”

Khalid chuckled. “They do take after their riders, don’t they?” His sweet girl, how he loved that stubborn streak of hers; once it was clear she was one of the finest mounts produced by the stables, his cousin Jahan had insisted they switch whelps. That lasted half a day until Marmoulak simply flew away from the crown prince and perched in a tree, trilling insults and complaints.

“Sometimes too much.” She sat beside him and began pulling on the wyvern’s lips to examine her teeth. “She’s been all sorts of wound up, even snapped at me yesterday. Now look at her, meek as a kitten.” A grunt from the beast, and Ameera trilled a chiding sound. He saw her glance at him before speaking in a low voice, “My husband says you’re the one that suggested the hostage idea.”

Khalid licked his lips, considering how to answer that question. To say it outright; who knew if and how it could get out. He leaned over. “I was really tired of sleeping outside.”

A smirk. Marmoulak whined as Ameera lifted her head to examine the other side of her snout and teeth for issues; such care for his mount, treatment fit for a crown prince. “Oh, hush you, silly girl.” A whisper. “I knew even my husband couldn’t think to do something that outrageous. He’s too good.”

“Dunno what that says about me, then.”

Her laugh was bright. “Oh, it’s different when you put yourself in danger.” Examination done, Khalid grunted as Marmoulak flopped her head back onto his lap with another complaining sound. “Your parents will come, no doubt. Alai especially misses you, I know.”

“That’s reassuring.” He lay back to watch at the sky as Ameera stood up to finish her inspection of the albino. The wyvern nuzzled, her head coming to rest on his stomach. “When is it my turn to lay on you, eh, Marmoulak?”

“Perhaps another day, Khalid. I think your guards are getting anxious about us being alone for so long.” He sighed, gently pushing Marmoulak’s head off his body. She whined, and he kissed her forehead again. “We’ll come back, I’m sure she’l keep fussing,” Ameera said with a wink.

* * *

That night, Nader came with a twenty squares board made of ebony wood with silver detailing. Supper came with, a whole chicken for the two of them. They sat opposite each other, clacking jasper pieces on the board. “A messenger was sent with your ring this morning. Your parents should be here within two moons.”

“Is the messenger one of the people you think might be selling secrets?”

“Of course.” Nader frowned, rubbing his beard. “You play differently than before. Are you out of practice?”

Khalid grinned. “No.” He clacked a piece down and felt a bit smug as Nader studied the board. “And here I thought that you were here because you missed me.”

“I did miss you, kiddo, but we are also supposed to be pretending you don’t want to be here. Make sure you mope when I leave, like I asked you to give up state secrets.” They ate and clacked tiles without speaking for some time, the general’s frown deepening with every turn. “Damn, you’ve gotten better. I thought Fodlanders preferred chess.”

“Once upon a time, there was an Almyran prince who gave a Leicester duke a board of ivory and gold, as a sign of friendship they both hoped would bloom between their two nations.” Khalid spoke as if he were telling some great fable. “That prince taught that duke how to play, and they seemed to have finally bridged the gap between their two nations.”

Nader snorted. “And then that prince stole the duke’s daughter, as he had fallen madly in love with her.”

“I’m not complaining too much about that outcome, to be honest.” He captured a piece. “That’s match, by the way. Two more moves and it’s over.”

“How in-oh, gods below.” Nader slapped his thigh with a smile, shaking his head. Then he leaned back, considering Khalid with a smirk. “What was your strategy?”

He shrugged. “If you really want to win, you have to be willing to do the unthinkable. Like making an Almyran prince the sovereign duke of Leicester.”

Nader looked as if he was seeing Khalid for the first time. “You’ve really changed, kiddo.” Whether it was for the better, the general didn’t say, and they began setting up the board again for another game.


	22. The Royal Family of Almyra

One week turned into two, then three, then the calendar changed, and Khalid was _bored_. Perhaps once this would have been his dream, this supreme idleness of laying in bed reading or playing games from dawn til dusk with his meals brought on silver trays; now forced on him, it made him itch with impatience. He took to pacing the room, his mind wandering. When would his parents be here? He had no way to reach anyone, no way to get information _out_. He fretted about the Riegan duchy and its upkeep, his manor and village of refugees, and Judith’s handling of his seat at the conferences. Well, perhaps not that last so much; the other lords were probably too intimidated by the Hero of Daphnel to fight her the way they tried with him.

He should have packed Godfrey’s letters. If he had known he would have ample time to be idle and work out all the possible meanings of some of the more obscure passages; several of his days he spent staring at the canopy of his bed, trying to remember as much as he could from them. It really wasn’t much more than gossip regarding the other lords, but he needed every advantage at his disposal when he returned. If he returned. _No, best not to think that way._

Worse, he saw neither Ameera or Nader since that day he’d been to the aviary to see Marmoulak. He understood the concern of looking too friendly with their hostage, but it didn’t stop his boredom. The servants who brought his meals refused to even say hello, acting as if he hadn’t spoken at all, and more than once he caught a curling lip of disapproval; that old Almyran prejudice was truly a friend to count on.

He was pacing when the door opened one afternoon without announcement, and Nader entered the room. He took stock of the state of the place with a stoic face, taking in the haphazard stacks of books, the scattered game pieces on the table, Khalid scruffy, needing a bath and clean clothes. He cleared his throat. “The royal army has been spotted. They’ll be here in two days, possibly three if something delays them.”

“Are they being followed?” The general nodded; well, at least it wasn’t for nothing. “At least they love me enough to come to my rescue this time.”

Another critical sweep over his tornado of clutter. “They might regret it if they meet their son in this state.” Nader stepped closer and whispered in his ear, “As much as I wish to see you fight, kiddo, best if you stay in these rooms until it’s over.”

Khalid nodded. “Can you have someone bring me a razor?” He rubbed his jaw. “I suppose this needs to go.”

“Why?” Nader laughed when he paused in the motion of caressing his beard. “Trim it up a bit and you’d look rather princely, I’d wager.” The general left.

He looked around the room and sighed; if Papa saw this, he’d never hear the end of it. After a brief moment of consideration, he began to clean.

* * *

Two days, and the fighting began. Three days of fighting; Khalid sat on the bed most of that time, listening to the sounds of war, muffled by the walls between him and the battle. Sometimes it sounded frighteningly close, to the point that he was cursing the fact that all he had for protection was a shaving razor and books to throw at any assailants. But when it was further away, all he could hear was the agony of war; men and wyverns groaning, the din of feet stomping on earth and stone, shouts and the screech of metal on metal.

No one came to feed him, and he was wondered if there were still guards outside his room. At least they thought to bring him something just in case, and he conserved the waterskins and dried fruits as best he could. He couldn’t sleep, not with the cacophony of war all around him.

Sometime late in the third day, a strange and sudden stop to the fighting, an eerie silence after the din before. He wanted to look, but his windows only faced a private garden that he knew had been left untouched; in his bolder moments he dared to get a peek and only saw the flowers, unsullied by the brutal noises around him. Khalid sighed, feeling his mouth dry up in anticipation. He went to stand in front of the door, and waited.

It wasn’t long, and he heard a woman’s voice, footsteps; there were other voices, too, but he only cared about hers. Door flung open, green eyes met his own, and he stared at his mother Tiana the Demon Queen. Her white-blonde hair, bleached from the sun and hanging damp down her back, was longer than ever. They studied each other, looking for those little changes. At last, she cleared her throat. “You took your sweet time coming home. I sent Hamza to fetch you over two years ago.”

He shrugged. “You never taught me to be obedient.”

Mom snorted, and pulled him tight against her. “Oh, my Khalid, my crescent moon boy. Look at you.” She touched his jaw with the traces of beard, squeezed his arms. “Finally taller than me, I see. Fodlan cuisine agrees with you.”

“We have Enora to thank for that.” Oddly, saying it made him miss her roasted pheasant with the chestnut stuffing.

“Ah, that old lady’s still working?” She pulled away and looked up into his face. “Khalid, my son, the Duke of Riegan.” The pause put a knife through his heart. “You came to tell me about Father, didn’t you?” He nodded, and she gave him a soft, sad smile; he should have known she would come to that conclusion when she saw the ring. Another squeeze. “Come, tell me everything.”

Someone brought tea and something to eat, and they stuffed themselves with pistachio and almond pastries. “You’ve gotten tan,” he commented as they settled on opposite sides of the table.

“And you’ve gotten pale. Too many rainy days indoors, taking care of that mess on the other side of the mountains, yes?” She poured tea. “I heard there’s a war in Fodlan, too.”

He nodded. “I’ve been able to keep Leicester out of it for now.”

She leaned on an elbow, adoration and amusement writ on her face. “When I sent my son to my father, I never thought I would actually get a Riegan duke back in his place. I was sure that impossible old man would make you run for the hills, literally.”

Khalid laughed. “He didn’t go easy on me, that’s for sure. But,” he closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to even out. “I think he was a very different man than the one you left behind.”

“Finally learned a little patience, did he? When you were little, I cursed his name for giving you that pigheaded streak.” More food came, this time a platter of lamb and bread dripping butter and honey, and his mother groaned. “Oh, bless Ameera with a long life.”

He waited until she had a full mouth to speak. “I thought I got that stubbornness from you.” She made a noise of protest, eyes bulging, and he laughed. “Don’t choke.” He’d better get some before his mother ran the table, and they ate in a comforting silence, both enjoying the full meal after so many days of strife.

The door opened again, and his father Alai the Starry Eyed, the man who hoped to be king, entered the room. He was not an especially tall man, broad shouldered enough to be a decent fighter with an axe and his brown eyes sharp enough to be deadly with a bow, but his face; women and not a few men sighed when his father passed by with that perfect jaw and nose, his curls always in place even without his trying. There was just something about him that drew every eye to him, but his were always on the horizon, charcoal pencil and paper in hand, looking for something new and beautiful to sketch.

But now, he stared at his son; Khalid stared back, holding his breath. Mom gestured for him to sit with a noise, her mouth working to strip another lamb bone clean. “Well met, Duke Claude von Riegan. I hope your stay in my humble lands have been comfortable.”

Papa always knew how to make him smile, even when he didn’t want to; he and his father never spoke in Fodlandic together, and to hear him speak it just to make a joke was almost too much. Khalid replied in Almyran, trying his best to put on a bad accent. “Tolerable, though the hospitality the last few days could have been better. Tell me, Prince Ali, do you always carry on a war with a visiting head of state in residence?” Khalid picked up his tea and watched as Papa tried not to smile.

“Apologies, your Grace. I’m afraid I must correct you, as there appears to have been some misunderstanding, because my name is Alai.” He sat down beside his wife, and Khalid poured him tea. “Perhaps you ought to mention it to whoever taught you Almyran.”

 _I’m talking to him right now._ “A thousand pardons, Prince Alai. Perhaps if there weren’t more Alis than grains of sand in the East Desert, the mistake wouldn’t have been made.”

“Are you both done?” Despite her tone, Mom smiled as she popped the bone from her mouth, clean of any bits of meat and fat.

“My love, these are delicate negotiations between sovereigns, you must understand.” A small satchel was produced, and Papa set it in front of him. “A gift for his Grace, to show friendship between our nations.”

Khalid shook the pouch over his palm, and his signet ring tumbled out. “Giving me my ring back is hardly a gift, Papa.” The gold was pleasantly cool as he slipped it back onto his finger, the weight comforting.

One hand over his heart, he inclined his head. “I’m honored that you are so pleased with your gift that you would address me with such familiarity.” Even Papa had begun to really crack, and rubbed the smile off his lips quickly. Mom rolled her eyes as if to say _You’re both crazy_. “It is customary to exchange gifts, but I understand if you are unaccustomed to our ways.”

“I have something for both you and your beautiful wife, but I’m afraid it might not be as fine a gift as what you’ve given me.” He stood and went to where he had set his saddlebags. The letters were there, still tucked in his journal. “From his Grace, the late Duke Oswald.”

Papa took both; Mom’s hands were greasy from supper. “You came all this way to give us a couple letters? We raised a boy to be quite silly, Tiana.”

Khalid shrugged, feeling the salt sting of that wound opened again; it was stupid to still feel so much resentment about a couple letters. Papa considered him, and at last Khalid turned away to wipe his eyes with a thumb. “You went too far, Alai,” Mom chided.

“As I usually do.” Papa rose from his seat with a groan; he was still taller than his son, but not by much now. Calloused hands on his cheeks, lips on his forehead. “I’m glad you’re home, my crescent moon.”

It seemed he was still young enough to cry on his father’s shoulder. A soft laugh shook them both as Khalid dug his fingers into Papa’s shirt, sniffling. He smelled like cinnamon and frankincense, a comforting smell from his childhood. “Oh, my son.” He heard a shifting, and the warmth of his mother against his back. “I suppose even dukes need their parents from time to time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alai the Starry Eyed, King of Almyra, teller of incredibly bad (great?) dad jokes.


	23. War and Work

A knock on the bedroom door woke Khalid the next morning, followed by Papa’s voice. “Khalid? Why are you still sleeping?” They stayed up late, talking about everything and nothing; Mom pushed him for details of his time in Fodlan deep into the night until Papa had fallen asleep in his seat, snoring softly with his chin his collarbone. His parents declined the narrow bed and made themselves comfortable on the piles of cushions in the other room, and then he crawled into the other room, deep asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

A groan, and he rubbed his face as he sat up. Sunlight poured in from the window, bright and inviting. “Why are you awake? It feels like we just went to bed.” He yawned, still trying to get the sand out of his eyes. _At least I didn’t have one of those damned dreams last night._

“It’s almost midmorning.” There was amusement in that voice. “Has Fodlan made my son soft?”

“I’m getting going.” He could only imagine the taunts if his father knew he was used to being woken up by servants. “Is there breakfast?” No sash, just pants and a shirt were acceptable if it was family.

“Meditation first, you know that. Unless that’s another habit you’ve given up, too.” He was definitely being mocked now; he and Papa used to do this every morning ever since Khalid was old enough to learn the practice. A pause. “Have you?”

“No, it’s just, I usually do it at night now.” He had tried, but in the palace it always seemed inconvenient, his days filled from breakfast to bed. In Garreg Mach it had been easier, what with Felix’s daily pounding on Sylvain’s door for training and waking everyone but the Gautier heir up; that had been a definite downside of sharing the end of the hall with the Faerghus nobility. 

“It’s better for mornings, to settle your mind and prepare for the day.” Another rap. “Pick up your feet, there’s work to be done.”

He opened the door. “Such is the bane of a ruler; the work never ends.” Papa, already dressed for the day, frowned at him; no, frowned at his hair, still wild from sleep. Khalid ran his fingers though it to put it somewhat in place. “Still looks awful, doesn’t it?”

At least he could make his father laugh. “Just like you, your hair likes to misbehave.” He spied Mom curled up on a pile of cushions, still fast asleep.

There was something soothing about Papa being with him, and he focused on the sounds of his father’s breathing as they sat opposite each other, crossed legged with hands resting on their knees. Straight backs, steady deep breaths, eyes closed. They would sit like this until Papa was satisfied, and then with a prayer tumbling from his lips in a whisper, their fingers reached and tapped the floor. Eyes opened, his father looked back. “You’re out of practice and need to breathe more slowly. Mornings, Khalid.”

“Yes, oh wise father.” He clapped his hands and bowed, still seated. “Would you impart more wisdom on me, sire of mine?”

A pillow flew between them; Mom was awake, looking surly. “You’re both making too much damned noise.” Another projectile; this one hit true on Papa’s shoulder. “It’s too early for your games.”

When he wanted, Papa could look rather regal; usually in the privacy of their family sphere, however, it just meant he was about to do something outrageous. “Tiana, my most beloved queen.” Khalid held his breath, waiting.

“What?” She gasped when one of the cushions hit her square in the face. “Alai!” Mom sat up, and they both took cover as she began to let fly.

If it had been anyone but Hamza to come across the royal family engaged in such a war first thing in the morning, it may have been the gossip of the century. As such, the pitched battle only slowed slightly as the attendant entered the apartments and shut the door behind her. “Breakfast is ready in the great hall, and Alai is needed for an urgent meeting,” she said, catching a pillow without breaking her stoic expression. This she flung back at Khalid to hit him square in the chest. “That point goes to Tiana.”

Khalid pouted. “Reinforcements and alliances were not agreed on.”

“We’re counting points this time?” Papa flinched as a pillow smacked the back of his head. "Khalid, my hair."

“I was counting mine,” Mom replied smugly from behind her table fortress in the corner. “I guess that means you both lost.”

Even if they all had been counting, she always won; Mom wasn’t much of an archer, but with cushions she was deadly. “Damn it. But I’m an honored foreign guest here on an important diplomatic mission, so I should win.”

Papa turned and bowed to his son. “A thousand apologies, your Grace. Sometimes my lady wife can get a little too caught up in the competition and forgets her refined Fodlandic manners.” There was a smirk on his face as he righted himself. “Can I interest you in a traditional Almyran breakfast? I’m sure we can find something to fit your most discerning palate.”

“If your palate wants meat porridge, that is, because that’s pretty much what’s left.” Hamza replied before she turned to Papa; from Khalid’s angle, he could see she had a scar on her cheek now from temple to her ear, new-looking and puffy. “That meeting. A prisoner confirmed that Farid wasn’t here. It’s the usual argument, with the usual suspects saying you put too much faith in Nader, others saying you should have pushed on to the capital, others moaning that Nader put Khalid in danger by exposing his location. I stopped listened when Nader and Esmail started arguing.”

“ _Fuck_.” Khalid blinked; his father never swore. Papa looked very tired, and closed his eyes for a long moment, the corners crinkling. Then something shifted, a smoothing of the lines of his face and a straightening of his spine. It was a moment Khalid knew the feeling of quite well, and Prince Alai the Starry Eyed appeared before their eyes. “Khalid, take care of your mother today.” And then he left, the door shut quietly behind him.

Mom sighed and picked up the table to set it back in the middle of the room. “Come on, Khalid, we’ve got work of our own today.”

* * *

The edge of his shovel cut deep into the earth as Khalid pressed down against it with a booted foot, the sounds of dirt and rock scratching against the metal strangely soothing. Mom, her long hair pulled back into a tight knot at her nape, grunted beside him as she stomped down on her own shovel; on his other side and down the long line another fifty or so, all busy digging graves for the dead. The army had worked through the night to prepare the dead and begin the burials, and now they were very nearly done. Exhausting work, but they wanted to get it done before the sun got too high and the dead spent another day baking in the heat, even though they were all draped in scented funeral shrouds now. 

“In my home, we burn the dead,” one of the men muttered as he paused to wipe his brow. “Though that would take every tree within a wyvern flight in every direction to make enough pyres.”

“Pretty sure Nader wouldn’t like to have his fortress caught in the middle of a grass fire, Reza,” Mom replied, and he laughed, showing her all his brilliantly white teeth. “Just dig, we’re almost finished.”

“And then a feast?” Khalid tried not to get his hopes up, but he knew that was usually how these things went; a fight, a funeral, a feast. “Did you bring your best party dress, Mom?”

“Of course, my crescent moon boy. I hope you save one dance for your old, decrepit mother.” She swore at the squeal of metal on rock, and she bent over to scrabble in the dirt with her fingers to unearth a rock about the size of a man’s head. Together, they lifted the rock and carried it over to the pile in the corner while he continued to dig; not long now.

Next, the bodies; two people to carry, two to lower it into the grave. This work was quick, but the sun was high and they were all already exhausted from the digging, so everyone was cursing and sweating, even his usually inexhaustible mother. “Someone fetch my husband so we can start, and then we can all have some lunch and a nap.” A cheer when up at Mom’s words while a couple ran off to the fortress. Mom caught him around the shoulders, leaning on him heavily as they found a slim bit of shade against the fortress walls. “You kept up well, despite being a prisoner of war.”

“Had more energy to spare than the rest of you,” he murmured, and she kissed his temple. “Do you want to sit down?”

She shook her head, even as she sagged a bit more with the pretext of being very affectionate toward her son. Khalid put his arms around her waist to steady her. “If I do, I might not be able to get back up.”

Waterskins were passed around, and they all took a drink before coming back to their fresh graveyard to wait for Papa and the generals, shovels once more in hand. Khalid tried not to imagine how many bodies there might be. So much death, and yet the war still continued without the surrender or death of the Usurper.

At last, his father and the others emerged and came to the field; Papa’s face was a mask. Servants followed, other soldiers who had not been assigned the digging, ready to join in the mourning. His head turned, just so, toward Nader. “Would you like to begin?” It was his right and duty, this being his fortress.

A curt nod, and Nader stepped forward, and began to sing the first mourning chant. The general had a sonorous voice, even and smooth. Khalid picked up a shovel of dirt, and they began to bury the fallen as the other generals picked up the chant, his father included. As they buried the dead, the dancing began, feet pounding the earth as they covered the bodies so they could be reclaimed, the thick grasses of the Almyran plains claiming their bones as part of the whole once again.


	24. Feasting, Almyran Style

Ameera did always know how to throw a party. The courtyard was a dream with low tables brought out from inside and set up in a semi circle and lanterns lit and strung up over their heads. People danced, others ate and drank, laughing at their fellows’ conversation. An impromptu wrestling contest broke out at one end of the space, men stripped to the waist to grapple, their skin shiny with sweat in the lamplight.

At the head table with its gauzy silk tenting surrounding it on three sides, Khalid leaned on an elbow on a series of cushions and watched Papa and Nader at war. Jasper pieces clacked on the board, Papa covered his mouth with a hand as he always did when he was thinking hard, Nader scratching his beard. “Your son kicked my ass three times when he first came here,” the general muttered.

Papa’s eyes crinkled into a smile, and he glanced at his son. “Oswald taught you how to play like him?”

Khalid shook his head. “I learned by watching him. Never did win, though.”

Nader grunted. “How did a Fodlander learn to play our game better than us, Alai?”

“Duke Oswald is the exception when it comes to strategy. I don’t think anyone could ever match that old man in cunning.” Papa picked up his glass to take a swallow, frowning on finding it empty. He lifted it over his head and tapped twice. “Except perhaps his grandson, someday.”

Nader chuckled. “It was Khalid who suggested being taken hostage, after all. Clever little ruse, that.”

“A little warning would have been nice, husband. I thought my heart would stop when I saw you dragging Khalid by a rope,” Ameera said, poking Nader’s side.

“Too bad it didn’t work,” Khalid muttered. The servant who came to fill Papa’s glass also filled Khalid’s, and he watched the clear arrak turn milky as water mixed with it, the anise sweet on his tongue as he drank.

“Next time, my crescent moon.” Tiles clacked, and Papa shook his head as Nader smirked. “That was pure luck.”

“Why is it always luck when I win, but skill when you do? Play your son.”

A groan, and Khalid made a show of burying his face in his elbow. “But I don’t want to have to think right now. It’s a party.”

He felt a gentle smack of someone’s foot on his ass, and Mom came around to sit beside Papa. “All you want to do is get drunk and eat. Play a game with your father, and then come dance with me.”

Papa curled an arm around Mom’s waist and pulled her closer with a kiss on her cheek. “You’re the reason I lost. I saw you dancing with Reza, and my heart broke from your beauty,” he murmured. She was pretty tonight with her hair loose and hanging down her back, wearing a white blouse and brightly colored skirt with bells sewn into it that would chime when she danced.

Khalid watched the man in question as his mother laughed, teasing her husband about his weak excuses. He had learned that Reza was his father’s newest attendant, the son of one of the generals. It was a difficult position to fill as Papa preferred Hamza for his most delicate requests; most took offense at that arrangement and found a more promising situation. Reza now danced with some of the younger warriors, clapping to keep time for their movements. Was there something special about the man, or was it merely some political maneuvering that put him in that place?

“Perhaps our crescent moon would prefer to dance first,” he heard his mother say, and he turned to see that the board was ready for their match. Khalid pushed himself upright to face his father. “It might wake him enough to play, and perhaps a pretty girl out there caught his eye?”

“You know all those Fodlander nobles are engaged from the moment they’re born,” another general, Esmail by name, said. “Your son probably has someone waiting back home.”

“Is there, Khalid?” Mom poked his shoulder, teasing. “Which house did my father promise you to, my crescent moon?”

“Are you trying to distract me to help Papa? Because it won’t work.” The clacking began. “I am sort of engaged to a Goneril.” Part of him wished Hilda was here, if only to have someone to talk to; he was sure the other young fighters would eventually warm to him, but he distrusted their intentions even before acquaintance. At least with her, he knew and agreed to the terms of the political side of their friendship.

Nader choked, and Mom laughed even as she leaned over to pound on his back to assist. “A Goneril engaged to an Almyran prince. Has the world ended and no one noticed?”

“Kiddo, I hope you’re joking, because if you’re not, I’m going to have to disown you,” Nader added, wiping his eyes, voice still strained.

“Never, Khalid,” Ameera replied, a teasing glare pointed at her husband. “Don’t worry, if he disowns you, I’ll kick him out of the house.”

“We’re not even related, how can you disown me?” Khalid flashed Nader a smile. “She is Holst’s sister, if you’re curious.” Another groan from the general.

“Poor, poor Nader. He’s only undefeated against Almyrans,” Mom said with a laugh.

“You all talk too much,” Papa muttered, hand still clamped over his mouth. 

A snort from Nader. “Alai is serious about winning. Perhaps we ought to let him think in silence.”

“I’m always serious.” Clack went the tiles, and then Papa sighed. “My crescent moon, can’t you let me win like I used to do for you?”

“You never did that,” he replied, laughing. Three moves later and the game ended. Alai smiled even as he shook his head. Khalid bowed. “Honored father of mine, I’m grateful for your magnanimity in allowing me, your most beloved son, to win this game.”

“He really is a clever one, isn’t he?” This general’s name was Daryush, maybe. He didn’t sound friendly when he spoke, despite his laugh. “A little master tactician in the making.” _I hope that doesn’t stick._

Mom reached over and slapped his thigh. “Dance, Khalid.” She started to stand up, untangling herself from Papa’s grip. “You do this every time, you complain but once we get you dancing, you don’t stop until you can hardly stand.”

He groaned and leaned back on his elbows. “But no one’s singing right now. How are we supposed to dance with no music?”

She groaned back, and he knew without looking she had tossed her head back to do so. “Ameera, do you hear my ungrateful son over here? Any thin excuse not to dance with his poor old mother.”

He heard the smack of what he assumed was Ameera’s hand on Nader’s knee. “Husband, do you hear this awful story? If only someone would sing so little Khalid would dance with his mother.”

A clap of Nader’s hand on Papa’s shoulder. “It truly is a tragedy. Perhaps if someone can convince our dear Prince Alai to accompany me, I could sing a song for his wife and son to dance to.”

Papa smiled. “I am weak to the requests of my dearest wife. If someone can lend me an instrument, we can perhaps get my son to dance with his mother.” Khalid finished his drink in three sharp swallows as someone handed his father a stringed instrument.

Others took up the song as Papa and Nader started, other instruments picked up quickly and brought in tune with their performance. Mom grinned; it was her favorite song they played, and Khalid let himself be swept up, whirling around with his mother. Some joined them on the improvised dance floor, but most of the revelers were content to watch the woman who hoped to be queen dance with her son. They were light on their feet, just they way she taught him when he was a boy, and they flew across the space from one end to another and back again as it were nothing. “I’ve missed you, Khalid,” his mother murmured as they drew close as the song wound down. “Your father is still terrible at dancing, and he never has time anyway.” She kissed his cheek. “I’d steal another, but I think you have a line.”

He laughed; Papa was usually too distracted watching other people dance he usually forgot to move his own feet. Khalid looked around; hopefuls surrounded them. “Our feet are going to be raw by the end of this.”

“Perhaps Alai will let us sleep in tomorrow.”

“You must be talking about a different Alai, because Papa would never.” She laughed, another song started, and he and his mother sallied forth to conquer the crowd. Khalid was never picky about partners, and he just grabbed the first hand he saw and pulled them into step with him. As he whirled, he felt himself getting woozier, more lightheaded as the arrak wove its way through him with the rapid pounding of blood in his temple. But it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, so he kept dancing.

Round and round he went, different faces each time, until he felt someone grab his hand at the end of one song to claim a dance; he still had enough of his mind working to know it was a man’s, and he looked to see Reza grinning at him. _Well, he’s handsome, so why not?_ Someone began to sing, and Khalid assumed the first position. Reza shook his head with a polite bow. “You’re drunk, your Highness. Perhaps you ought to sit and rest.”

“I’m fine.” Reza shook his head again and pulled Khalid from the center of the courtyard to a table where others were gathered; young faces all. He tried not to sulk as a cushion was found for him to sit on, and Reza poured him a glass of water. A plate of food set in front of him with the water; well, he was hungry, so he tore into the bread to dip into the spiced lentil soup in front of him.

He listened while he ate; their conversation wasn’t thrilling, mostly flirting amongst the group. _Must be nice to have not a care in the world._ Reza seemed to be in the middle of it, laughing and flirting with the others. The food sucked away some of the fuzziness from the arrak, and Khalid observed the man more soberly now, wondering why he felt it necessary to pull the prince from his revelry. Did he hope to gain Papa’s trust with the hope Khalid would mention it, or was there something else? he didn’t know enough about the politics in Almyra to begin to suss out the man’s motives.

One of the young women fixed Khalid with what was meant to be a coquettish smile. “They say you’re a duke in Fodlan, and you live in a big palace in Enbarr.”

“Derdriu.” She blinked several times. “I have a palace in Derdriu, the capital of the Leicester Alliance.” He wasn’t trying to flirt, really; the absurd idea of him living in Enbarr made him reply without thought. “I usually live at another house in the countryside.”

“Sounds like your typical Fodlan noble, lazing around in a house without a care in the world.” One of the boys was already sulking about the attention he was getting, surly about having to compete with a prince. “Do you eat off gold plates, too?”

Khalid laughed; how could he possibly explain the manor, with its lovely meadow in the back where children played, the women from Almyra and Faerghus caring for the old, the infirm, and their fellows in labor? How to explain the patient way Gigi and the other Faerghans showed the Almyran women how to weave roses into garlands, the manor was full of garlands with petals everywhere for weeks? The blush on Aaron’s face that lasted for almost as long as the garlands did, his office packed with flowers. Fatimah and Enora in the kitchen together, one talking Almyran and the other Fodlandic, knowing enough to understand one another. And the hours and days and weeks of work he and Aaron put into the place to make it the haven it had become. “Only for the really fancy parties.”

A sigh from the woman. “How nice that would be. We’ve been following Alai for years now, and he has no palace or anything, despite being a prince.” _Because it was burnt to the ground by a madman_. She appraised Khalid again. “They say you’re not married, is that true?”

He considered how to reply without sounding rude, and saved by a hand shaking him; he looked up to see Hamza. “Your parents want you again. Something about a bow.”

He nodded. “I’ll be right there.” Khalid turned and nodded at Reza, who inclined his head. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” Now he had to go get drunk again, but sure. _Thanks._

One of the girls giggled. “Reza, perhaps you ought to go with Khalid to remind the prince what you look like. If you don’t, he’ll keep relying on that whore instead.”

Khalid blinked, and then licked his lips to reply. “Hamza was my nanny when I was a child.” He stood up as the girl blushed, visible even in the pale light of the lanterns. “Excuse me.”

Hamza waited a respectable distance away, as if he could get lost; no, more to hurry him along if he didn’t move. “You shouldn’t lower your own standing defending me,” she whispered as they walked. “I wasn’t even really your nanny.”

“Close enough.” He sighed. “Some rumors never die, do they?”

“They usually don’t if they’re true.” How his aunts had thought they were so clever, hiring a prostitute off the streets to be his mother’s attendant; Papa made them regret it by keeping Hamza on, the longest serving attendant either of his parents maintained. Oh, how those women squirmed, knowing she lived in the palace same as them, sleeping in the room next to Khalid’s in their family apartment. It made her fiercely loyal, and she was their confidant, spy, a nanny and bodyguard for him when he was young, armed with at least two thin bladed knives in her skirt at all times. _As if Reza or anyone could ever take her place._

He found his parents with Nader and the other generals in contemplation of Failnaught, which now sat in the center of the table. Papa looked up at him as he approached, one hand under his chin. “Khalid, your mother and Nader both swear you can perform a magic trick with this bow. Is this true, or are they playing some sort of joke on me?”

It would be easier just to show him, and Khalid reached over to pick up Failnaught. A whistle from one of the other generals as it began to glow, but he only wanted to see his father’s face, stoic in the Relic’s warm light. At last, a soft smile touched his mouth, though a bit troubled. “My crescent moon, you are full of surprises since you’ve come home.” Papa lifted his glass over his head again, and tapped. “Sit down and have a drink with me, my son, and tell us about this strange gift of yours.”


End file.
